Wo 
.iEDERIC COURTLAND PENFIELD 

T AMBASSADOR OF THE UNITED STATES OF 

ZA TO THE LATE AUSTRIAN EMPIRE THIS 

^ TIME TALE IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED 

IN MEMORY OF THE RESCUE OF CERTAIN 

DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS EFFECTED BY HIM 

IN THE world's GREAT STORM OF THE YEAR 

1914 



/ 



41-11333 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



J?A 



George Gordon, Lord Byron, the only son of Captain Byron, and Catherine, sole child and 
heiress of George Gordon, Esq., of Gight, in Scotland, was born on the 22d January, 1788, in Holies 
street, London. His father, a man of dissolute and extravagant habits, died in 1791, at Valenciennes, 
leaving his widow, who was then residing at AOera^en, to support herself and her son on a pittance of 
;^i35 per annum. In 1794, his cousin, the grandson of the fifth Lord Byron, died at Corsica, and he 
became the presumptive heir to the peerage. The fifth Lord Byron died, in 1798, and he succeeded to 
the title; and in the autumn of that year, removed with his mother from Aberdeen to Newstead Abbey, 
in Nottinghamshire, which since the reign of Henry VHL had been in the possession of the ancient 
family of Byron. Lord Byron had received the first rudiments of education at a grammar-school in 
\bcrc'''.en. He was next sent, in 1799, to the school of Dr. Glennie at Dulwich, and in 1801 to Harrow, 
which he qj'itted in 1805. He is described by the head-master of the latter school, the Rev. Dr. Drury, 
as sensitive in disposition, intractable except by gentle means, shy, defectively educated, and ill pre- 
'■• ro-'. fii- - public school; but exhibiting the germs of considerable talent, though it do'is not appear 
n then foreseen in what mode his talents would display themselves. He excelled in declama- 
ratory rather than poetry was thought to be the prevailing bent of his genius. He seems 
lu uavv, u^^a an active and spirited boy, at first unpopular, but finally a favorite; ardent in his school 
friendships, and jealous of the attachment of those whom he preferred. Among these the most learned 
were Lords Clare and Delawarr, the Duke of Dorset, Mr. Harness, and Mr. Wingfield, He was on 
friendly but less intimate terms with the most distinguished of his schoolfellows, the late Sir Robert 
Peel. In classical scholarship Lord Byron acknowledged himself very inferior to Peel; but he was 
thought superior to him and to most others in general information. This was indeed extensive to a 
very unusual degree; and he has left on record an almost incredible list of works, in many various 
departments of literature, which he had read before the age of fifteen. 

In October, 1805, he was removed to Trinity College, Cambridge. He slighted the university, 
neglected its studies, and rebelled against its authority. Meanwhile he had commenced his poetical 
career, but at first feebly and with faint promise of future excellence. He first attempted poetry as 
early as 1800, under the inspiration of a boyish attachment to his young cousin, a daughter of Admiral 
Parker. In November, 1806, he caused to be printed by Ridge, a bookseller at Norwich, for private 
circulation, a small volume of poems, among which one, written at the age of fifteen, is remarkable 
as containing a presage of his future fame. Some of the poems in this collection were of too licentious 
a character; and, on the advice of Mr. Becher, a gentleman to whom the first copy had been pre- 
sented, it was with praiseworthy promptitude suppressed, and replaced by a purified edition. In 1807 
appeared his first published work. The Hours of Idleness; a collection of poems little worthy of his 
talent, and chiefly remembered through the castigation which it received from the Edi7iburgh Reviezv. 
To this critique, which galled but did not depress him, we owe the first spirited outbreak of his talent, 
the satire entitled Ejtglish Bards a7id Scotch Revieiuers, which was published in 1809. The length 
of this poem was increased, and many changes made in it, during its progress through the press. 
Censures of individuals were turned into praises and praises into censures, with all the fickleness and 
precipitance of his age and character. It contained many harsh judgments, of which he afterwards 
repented; and able and vigorous as the satire was, and creditable to his talents, the time soon arrived 
when he was laudably anxious to suppress it. A few days previous to the publication of this satire, on 
the 17th of March, 1809, he took his seat in the House of Lords. He seems on that occasion to have 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



keenly felt the loneliness of his position. He was almost unknown to society at large; there was no 
peer to introduce him; and his mortification led him to receive with ungracious coldness the welcome 
of the lord-chancellor. His unfriended situation inspired him with disgust, and chilled his incipient 
longing for parliamentary distinction; and even a few days after taking his seat he retired to Newstead 
Abbey, and engaged with his friend Mr. (now Sir J. C.) Hobhouse to travel together on the Continent. 
About the end of June the friends sailed together from Falmouth to Lisbon; travelled through part of 
Portugal and the south of Spain to Gibraltar; sailed thence to Malta and afterwards to Albania, in which 
country they landed on the 29th of September. From this time till the middle of the spring of 181 1, 
Lord Byron was engaged in visiting many parts of Greece, Turkey, and Asia Minor; staying long at 
Athens, Constantinople, and Smyrna. He touched again on his return at Malta, quitted it on the 2d 
of June, and early in July, after two years absence, landed in England. His affairs during this period 
had fallen into disorder, and it became advisable to sell either Rochdale or Newstead. The latter he 
was then most anxious to retain, and professed that it was his " only tie " to England, " if he parted with 
that he should remain abroad." In a letter to a friend, written during his homeward voyage, he thus 
expresses his melancholy sense of his condition: "Embarrassed in my private affairs, indifferent to 
public, — solitary without a wish to be social, — with a body a little enfeebled by a succession of 
fevers, but a spirit I trust yet unbroken, — I am returning home, without a hope and almost without a 
desire." This gloom was still deepened by numerous afflictions. His mother died on the ist of August, 
without his having seen her again since his return to England, and he was deprived by death of five 
other relatives and friends between that and the end of August. " In the short space of one month," he 
says, " I have lost her who gave me being, and most of those who made that being tolerable." Amongst 
the latter were Wingfield, and Matthews, the brother of the author of The Diary of an Invalid. At 
this period of distress, he was approaching unsuspectingly a remarkable epoch of his fame. He had 
composed while abroad two poems, very different in character, and which he regarded with strangely 
misplaced feelings; the one called Hints from Horace, a weak imitation of his former satire; the 
other, the first two cantos of Childe Harold. The former he intended to publish immediately; but the 
latter he thought of so disparagingly (owing probably to the injudicious comments of the single friend 
who had hitherto seen it), that it might probably have never become known to the public but for the 
wise advice of Mr. Dallas. In compliance with the request of that gentleman, he withheld the Hints 
from Horace, which would have been injurious rather than beneficial to his fame; and allowed 
Childe Harold to be offered for publication. He received from his publisher, Mr. Murray, ;^6oo for 
the copyright, which he gave to Mr. Dallas. The publication was long delayed; for, though placed in 
the publisher's hands in August, it did not appear till the beginning of March, 1812. It, however, 
received during this interval considerable improvements; and the fears of the author were allayed by 
the approbation of iMr. Gifford, the translator of Juvenal, and then editor of the Quarterly Review. 
The success of the poem exceeded even the anticipation of this able critic; and Lord Byron emerged 
at once from a state of loneliness and neglect, unusual for one in his sphere of life, to be the magnet 
and idol of society. As he tersely says in his memoranda, " I awoke one morning and found myself 
famous." A few days before the publication of Childe Harold, he attracted attention, but in a minor 
degree, by his first speech in the House of Lords on the subject of the housebreaking bill. He opposed 
it, and with ability; and his first oratorical effort was much commended by Sheridan, Sir F. Burdett, and 
Lords Grenville and Holland. He had prepared himself, by having committed the whole of his speech 
to writing. It was well received, and he was extremely gratified by its success. He might perhaps 
have been incited by the praises it received to seek political distinction ; but the greater success which 
attended his poem turned his ambitious feelings into a different channel. He nevertheless spoke again 
about six weeks afterwards, on a motion of Lord Donoughmore, in favor of the claims of the Roman 
Catholics, but less successfully than before. Less clearness was displayed in the matter of his speech, 
and his delivery was considered as theatrical. In the autumn of this year he wrote an address, at the 
request of the Drury Lane Committee, to be spoken at the reopening of the theatre; and not long after- 
wards he became a member of that committee. The same autumn he engaged to sell Newstead for 
£,\\o,ooo, of which ;{;6o,ooo was to remain in mortgage on the estate for three years; but tliis purchase 
was never completed. In May, 1813, appeared his Giaour, a. wildly poetical fragment, of which the 
story was founded on an event that had occurred at Athens while he was there, and in which he was 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



personally concerned. It was written rapidly, and with such additions during the course of printing as 
to be more than trebled in length, and swelled from about four hundred lines to upwards of fourteen 
hundred. On the 2d of June in this year he spoke for the last time in the House of Lords, on pre- 
senting a petition from Major Cartwright. He had now apparently ceased to regard parliamentary dis- 
tinction as a primary object of ambition. 

In his journal of November, 1813, is the following entry : " I have declined presenting the debtors' 
petition, being sick of parliamentary mummeries. I have spoken thrice, but I doubt my ever becoming 
an orator; my first was liked, my second and third, I don't know whether they succeeded or not; I have 
never set to it coii amore.'''' In November he had finished his Bride of Abydos (written in a week), 
and it was published the following month. The Corsair, a poem of still higher merit and popularity, 
appeared in less than three months afterwards ; it was written in the astonishingly short space of ten days. 
During the year 1813 he appeared to have first entertained a serious intention of marriage, and became a 
suitor to Miss Milbanke, only daughter and heiress of Sir Ralph Milbanke. His first proposal was 
rejected; but the parties continued on the footing of friendship, and maintained a correspondence, of 
which, and of that lady, he thus speaks, and it may be presumed with the most perfect sincerity, in his 
private journal: " Yesterdaj'- a very pretty letter from Annabella, which I answered. What an odd 
situation and friendship is ours! without one spark of love on either side, and produced by circumstances 
which in general lead to coldness on one side and aversion on the other. She is a very superior woman, 
and very little spoiled, which is strange in an heiress — a girl of twenty, — peeress, that is to be in her 
own right, — an only child, and a savaiite, who has always had her own way. She is a poetess, a math- 
ematician, a metaphysician, and yet withal very kind, generous, and gentle, with very little pretensions: 
any other head would be turned with half her acquisitions and a tenth of her advantages." In Septem- 
ber, 1814, he made a second proposal by letter, which was accepted; and on the 2d of January, 1815, he 
was married to Miss Milbanke, at Seaham, the country-seat of her father. The only issue of this mar- 
riage. Augusta Ada, was born on the loth of December, of that year. We cannot lift the veil of their 
domestic life; we can only state the unfortunate results. On the 15th of January, 1816, Lady Byron 
leit London for Kirkby Mallory, the residence of her parents, whither Lord Byron was to follow her. 
She had, with the concurrence of some of Lord Byron's relatives, previously consulted Dr. Baillie 
respecting the supposed insanity of her husband, and by the advice of that gentleman had written to him 
in a kind and soothing tone. Lady Byron's impressions of the insanity of Lord Byron were soon 
removed, but were followed by a resolution on her part to obtain a separation. Conformably to this 
resolution, Sir Ralph Milbanke wrote to Lord Byron on the 2d of February, proposing such a measure. 
This proposal Lord Byron at first rejected, but afterv/ards consented to sign a deed to that effect. Dr. 
Lushington, the legal adviser of Lady Byron, has stated in a published letter, that he " considered 
reconciliation impossible." Of the circumstances which led to such an event, and on which Dr. Lush- 
ington founded such an opinion, the public is at present uninformed. We are, therefore, in absence of 
full and satisfying evidence, bound to suspend our judgment on the merits of this melancholy case, and 
dismiss it with the foregoing statement of the leading facts. 

In the course of the spring he published The Siege of Corinth, and Parisina. He also wrote two 
copies of verses, which appeared in the public papers. Fare thee ivell, and A Sketch, from Priziate Life; 
of which his separation from his wife, and the instrumentality which he imputes to an humble individual 
in conducing to that separation, were the themes. This private circumstance had become the subject of 
general comment. The majority of those who filled the circles in which Lord Byron had lately lived 
declared against him, and society withdrew its countenance. Lord Byron, deeply stung by its verdict, 
hastily resolved to leave the country; and on the 25th of April, 1816, he quitted England for the last 
time. His course was through Flanders and along the Rhine to Switzerland, where, at a villa called 
Diodati, in the neighborhood of Geneva, he resided during the summer. From thence he made two 
excursions, one in the central part of Switzerland in company with Mr. Hobhouse, and another shorter 
excursion with a celebrated poetical compeer, Mr. Shelley, with whom he became acquainted soon after 
his arrival at Geneva. He remained in Switzerland till October, during which time he had composed 
some of his most powerful works, the third canto of Childe Harold, The Prisoner of Chillon, Dark- 
ness, The Dream, part of Manfred, and a few minor poems. In October, he quitted Switzerhmd in 
company with Mr, Hobhouse, and proceeded by Milan and Verona to Venice. Here he resided from the 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



middle of November, 1816, to the middle of April, 1817, During this period his principal literary occu- 
pation was the completion of Man/red, of which he rewrote the third act. He visited Rome for about 
a month in the spring, and then returned to Venice, at which city, or at La Mira, in its immediate vicinity* 
he resided almost uninterruptedly from this time till 1819. He wrote during this period The Lament of 
Tasso, Beppo, the fourth canto of Childe Harold, Marino Faliero, The Foscari, Mazeppa, and part of 
Don Juan. The licentious character of his life while at Venice corresponded but too well with the tone 
of that production. His able biographer and friend, Mr. Moore, after adverting to his liaison with a 
married Italian woman, says: " Highly censurable in point of morality and decorum as was his course 
of life while under the roof of Madame , it was (with pain I am forced to confess) venial in com- 
parison with the strange headlong career of license to which, when weaned from that connection, he so 
unrestrainedly, and, it may be added, defyingly, abandoned himself." This course of unbridled liber- 
tinism received its first check from the growth of an attachment, which, as it was still unhallowed, not 
even the good which it may seem to have done, in the substitution of a purer sentiment, will enable us to 
regard with satisfaction. In April, 1819, he first became acquainted with the Countess Guiccioli, the 
young and newly married wife of an elderly Italian nobleman. A mutual attachment, which appears to 
have commenced on the part of the lady, soon arose between Lord Byron and the Countess Guiccioli. Their 
passion was augmented by occasional separation, the interest excited by her severe illness during one of 
their forced absences, and the imprudent complaisance of the husband in leaving them much in the society 
of each other. They long lived together in a half-permitted state of intimacy, the lady appearing with 
the consent of her husband to share his protection with that of Lord Byron. But this equivocal position 
soon terminated in the separation of the Count and Countess Guiccioli. The lady then went to reside 
with her father; and under his sanction, during the next three or four years, she and Lord Byron enjoyed 
the intimate possession of each other's society. In December, 1819, Lord Byron quitted Venice for 
Ravenna, where he remained till the end of October, 1821. During this period he wrote part of Don 
Juan, The Prophecy of Dante, Sarda?tapalus, a translation of the first Canto of Pulci's Morgante 
Maggiore, and the mysteries. Heaven and Earth, and Cain ; the latter of which may be justly con- 
sidered as among the most faulty in principle, and powerful in execution, of the productions of his 
genius. He also wrote a letter on Mr. Bowles's strictures on Pope, dated 7th February, 1821, in which 
he defends the poet against his commentator; and an answer to an article in Blackwood's Magazine, 
entitled " Remarks on Don Juan; " but this was never published. 

During this period an insurrectionary spirit broke out in Italy; the Carbonari appeared; and secret 
societies began to be formed. The brother of the Countess Guiccioli, Count Pietro Gamba, espoused 
the cause of the insurgents, and through his means Lord Byron became implicated in the proceedings of 
that party. In his private journal of 16th February, 1821, Lord Byron complains of tlie conduct of that 
gentleman and others^ in sending to his house, without apprising him, arms, with which he had a short 
time previously furnished them at their request, and thereby endangering his safety, and exposing him 
to the vengeance of the government, which had lately issued a .severe ordir.ance against all persons hav- 
ing arms concealed. In July, 1821, the father and brother of Madame Guiccioli were ordered to quit 
Ravenna, and repaired with that lady first to Florence, and afterwards to Pisa, where they were joined in 
October by Lord Byron. He remained at Pisa till September, 1822, Madame Guiccioli still living with 
him under the sanction of her father, who, in consequence of one of the conditions of her separation 
frcm her husband, was always to reside with her under the same roof. While here he lost his illegitimate 
daughter Allegra, and his friend Shelley, who was drowned in July, 1822, in the Bay of Spezzia. The 
body was burned, and Lord Byron assisted at this singular rite. His principal associates during this 
time had been the Gambas, Shelley, Captain Medwyn, and Mr. Trelawney. He had also become asso- 
ciated with the brothers John and Leigh Hunt, in a periodical paper called The Liberal ; a transaction 
certainly disinterested, inasmuch as it does not appear that he expected either profit or fame to accrue to 
himself from the undertaking; and he seems to have allowed his name to be connected with it from a de- 
sire to serve the Hunts, of whom Leigh Hunt with his wife and family received an a.sylum in his house. 
An affray with a serjeant-major at Pisa rendered his residence in that city less agreeable; and his re- 
moval from it was at length determined by an order from the Tuscan government to the Gambas to quit 
the territory. Accordingly, in September, 1822, he removed with them to Genoa. While at Pisa he had 
written, besides his contributions to The Liberal, Werner, The Deformed Transformed, ^■a.^ the 
remainder of D^n Juan. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



In April, 1823, he commenced a correspondence with the Greek committee, through Messrs. Bla- 
quiere and Bowring, and began to interest himself warmly in the cause of the Greeks. In May he de- 
cided to go to Greece; and in July he sailed from Genoa in an English brig, taking with him Count 
Gamba, Mr. Trelawney, Dr. Burns, an Italian physician, and eight domestics; five horses, arms, ammu- 
nition, and medicine. The money which he had raised for this expedition was 50,000 crowns; 10,000 in 
specie; and the rest in bills of exchange. In August he arrived at Argostoli, the chief port of Cephalo- 
nia, in which island he established his residence till the end of December. His first feelings of exagger- 
ated enthusiasm appear to have been soon cooled. Even as early as October he uses, in letters to 
Madame Guiccioli, such expressions as, " I was a fool to come here; " and, " Of the Greeks I can't say 
much good hitherto; and I do not like to speak ill of them, though they do of one another." During the 
latter part of this year we find him endeavoring to compose the dissensions of the Greeks among them- 
selves, and assisting them with a loan of £i„ooo. About the end of December, 1823, he sailed from 
Argostoli in a Greek mistico, and, after narrowly escaping capture by a Turkish frigate, landed on the 
5th of January, 1824, at Missolonghi. His reception here was enthusiastic. The whole population 
came out to welcome him ; salutes were fired ; and he was met and conducted into the town by Prince 
Mavrocordato, and all the troops and dignitaries of the place. But the disorganization which reigned 
in this town soon depressed his spirits, which had been raised by this reception, and filled his mind 
with reasonable misgivings of the success of the Greek cause. Nevertheless his resolution did not seem 
to fail, nor did he relax in his devotion to that cause, and in his efforts to advance it. About the end of 
January, 1824, he received his commission from the Greek government as commander of the expedition 
against Lepanto, with full powers, both civil and military. He was to be assisted by a military 
council, with Bozzari at its head. Great difficulties attended the arrangement of this expedition, 
arising principally from the dissensions and jealousies of the native leaders, and the mutinous spirit of 
the Suliote troops; with which latter, on the 14th of February, Lord Byron came to a rupture, in conse- 
quence of their demand, that about a third part of the number should be raised from common soldiers 
to the rank of officers. Lord Byron was firm, and they submitted on the following day. Difficulties in 
the civil department harassed him at the same time, aggravated by a difference of opinion between him- 
self and Colonel Stanhope, on the subject of a free press, which the latter was anxious to introduce, and 
for which, on the other hand. Lord Byron considered that Greece was not yet ripe. On the 15th of Feb- 
ruary, the day of the professed su'-:>mission of the Suliotes, he was seized with a convulsive fit, and for 
many days was seriously ill. While he was on a sick-bed, the mutinous Suliotes burst into his room, de- 
manding what they called their rights; and, though his firmness then controlled them, it soon after- 
wards became necessary to get rid of these lawless soldiers, by a bribe of a month's pay in advance, — 
and with their dismissal vanished the hopes of the expedition against Lepanto. After this he turned his 
mind chiefly to the fortification of Missolonghi, the formation of a brigade, and the composition of the 
differences among the Greek chieftains. Since his attack in February he had never been entirely well. 
Early in April, he caught a severe cold, through exposure to rain. His fever increased, and, in conse- 
quence of his prejudice against bleeding, that remedy was delayed till it was too late to be effectual. 
On the 17th, (the second day after he had been bled,) appearances of inflammation in the brain pre- 
sented themselves. The following day he became insensible, and, about twenty-four hours afterwards, 
at a quarter past six in the evening of the 19th of April, 1824, Lord Byron breathed his last. Public 
honors were decreed to his memory by the authorities of Greece, where his loss was deeply lamented. 
The body was conveyed to England, and on the i6th of July was deposited in the family vault, in the 
parish church of Hucknell, near Newstead, in the county of Notts. By his will, dated 29th July, 1815, 
Lord Byron bequeathed to his half-sister, Mrs. Leigh, during her life, and after her death to her children, 
the moneys arising from the sale of all such property, real and personal, as was not settled upon Lady 
Byron and his issue by her. The executors were Mr. Hobhouse, and Mr. Hanson, Lord Byron's solici- 
tor. 

The personal appearance of Lord Byron was prepossessing. His height was five feet eight and a 
half inches; his head small; his complexion pale; hair dark brown, and curly; forehead high; features 
regular and good, and somewhat Grecian; eyes light gray, but capable of much expression. He was 
lame in the right foot, owing, it is said, to an accident at his birth; which circumstance seems always to 
have been to him a source of deep mortification, little warranted by its real importance. It did not pr' 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



vent him from being active in his habits, and excelling in various manly exercises. He was a very good 
swimmer; successfully crossed the Hellespont in emulation of Leander; swam across the Tagus, a still 
greater feat; and, greatest of all, at Venice, in 1818, from Lido to the opposite end of the grand canal, , 
having been four hours and twenty minutes in the water without touching ground. In his younger days 
he was fond of sparring; and pistol shooting, in which he excelled, was his favorite diversion while in 
Italy. In riding, for which he professed fondness, he did not equally excel. He was nervous, both on 
horseback and in a carriage, though his conduct in Greece, and at other times, proved his unquestionable 
courage on great occasions. He had always a fondness for animals, and seemed to have preferred those 
which were of a ferocious kind. A bear, a wolf, and sundry bull-dogs, were at various times among his 
pets. The habits of his youth, after the period of boyhood, were not literary and intellectual ; nor were 
his amusements of a refined or poetical character. He was always shy, and fond of solitude; but when 
in society, lively and animated, gentle, playful, and attractive in manner; and he possessed the power o£ 
quickly conciliating the friendship of those with whom he associated. He was very susceptible of at- 
tachment to women. The objects of his strongest passions appear to have been Miss Chaworth, after- 
wards Mrs. Musters, and the Countess Guiccioli. His amours were numerous, and there was in his 
character a too evident proneness to libertinism. His constitution does not seem ever to have been 
strong, and his health was probably impaired by his modes of life. He was abstemious in eating, some- 
times touching neither meat nor fish. Sometimes also he abstained entirely from wine or spirits, which 
at other times he drank to excess, seldom preserving a wholesome moderation and regularity of system. 
His temper was irascible, yet placable. He was quickly alive to tender and generous emotions, and per- 
formed many acts of disinterested liberality, even toward those whom he could not esteem, and in spite 
of parsimonious feelings, which latterly gained hold upon him. He was a man of a morbid acuteness of 
feeling, arising partly from original temperament, and partly from circumstances and habits. He had 
been ill educated; he had been severely tried; his early attachments, and his first literary efforts, had 
equally been unfortunate; he had encountered the extremes of neglect and admiration; pecuniary dis- 
tresses, domestic afflictions, and the unnerving tendency of dissipated habits, had all conspired to 
aggravate the waywardness of his excitable disposition. It is evident, that, in spite of his assumed 
indifference, he was always keenly alive to the applause and censure of the world; and its capricious 
treatment of him more than ordinarily encouraged that vanity and egotism which were conspicuous traits 
in his character. 

The religious opinions of Lord Byron appear, by his own account of them, to have been " unfixed; " 
but he expressly disclaimed being one of those infidels who deny the Scriptures, and wish to remain " in 
unbelief." In politics he was liberal, but his opinions were much influenced by his feelings; and, though 
professedly a lover of free institutions, he could not withhold his admiration even from tyranny when his 
imagination was wrought upon by its grandeur. He would not view Napoleon as the enslaver of France; 
he viewed him only as the most extraordinary being of his age, and he sincerely deplored his fall. 

Lord Byron's prose compositions were so inconsiderable that they may almost be overlooked ih^the 
view of his literary character. His letters, nevertheless, must not pass wholly unnoticed. Careless as 
ihey are, and hastily written, they are among the most lively, spirited, and pointed specimens of epistolary 
writing in our language, and would alone suffice to indicate the possession of superior talent. The 
critical theories of Lord Byron were remarkably at variance with his practice. The most brilliant sup- 
porter of a new school of poetry, he was the professed admirer of a school that was superseded. The 
most powerful and original poet of the nineteenth century, he was a timid critic of the eighteenth. In 
theory he preferred polish to originality or vigor. He evidently thought Pope the first of our poets; he 
defended the unities; praised Shakspeare grudgingly; saw little merit in Spenser; preferred his own 
Hints from Horace to his Childe Harold's Pilgrimage; and assigned his contemporaries, Coleridge 
and Wordsworth, a place far inferior to that which public opinion has more justly accorded to them. 

The poetry of Lord Byron produced an immediate etTect unparalleled in our literary annals. Of 
this influence much may be attributed, not only to the real power of his poetry, but also to the impressive 
identification of its principal characteristics with that which, whether truly or falsely, the world chose to| 
regard as the character of the author. He seemed to have unbosomed himself to the public, and admitted I 
them to view the full intensity of feelings which had never before been poured forth with such eloquent j 
^ 'irectness. His poems were as tales of the confessional, portraitures of real passion, not tamely feigned, j 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



but fresh and glowing from the breast of the writer. The emotions which he excelled in displaying were 
those of the most stormy character, — hate, scorn, rage, despair, indomitable pride, and the dark spirit of 
misanthropy. It was a narrow circle, but in that he stood without a rival. His descriptive powers were 
eminently-^greai* His works abound with splendid examples; among which the Venetian night-scene 
from Lioni's balcony, Terni, the. coliseum viewed by moonlight, and the shipwreck in Don Juan will 
probably rise foremost in the memories of many readers. In description he was never too minute. He 
selected happily, and sketched freely, rapidly, and bodily. He seized the most salient images, and brought 
them directly and forcibly to the eye at once. There was, however, in his descriptive talent, the same 
absence of versatility and variety which characterized other departments of his genius. His writings do 
not reflect nature in all its infinite change of climate, scenery, and season. He portrayed with surprising 
truth and force only such objects as were adapted to the sombre coloring of his pencil. The mountain, 
the cataract, the glacier, the ruin, — objects inspiring awe and melancholy, — seemed more congenial to 
his poetical disposition than those which led to joy or gratitude. 

His genius was not dramatic; vigorously as he portrayed emotions, he was not successful in drawing 
characters; he was not master of variety; all his most prominent personages are strictly resolvable into 
one. There were diversities, but they were diversities of age, clime, and circumstance, not of character. 
They were merely such as would have appeared in the same individual when placed in different situa- 
tions. Even the lively and the serious moods belonged alike to that one being; but there was a bitter 
recklessness in the mirth of his lively personages,, which seems only the temporary relaxation of that 
proud misanthropic gloom that is exhibited in his serious heroes; and each might easily become the 
other. It may also be objected to many of his personages, that, if tried by the standard of nature, they 
were essentially false. They were sublime monstrosities; —strange combinations of virtue and vice, 
such as had never really existed. In his representations of corsairs and renegades, he exaggerates the 
good feelings which may, by a faint possibility, belong to such characters, and suppresses the brutality 
and faithlessness which would more probably be found in them, and from which it is not possible that 
they should have been wholly exempt. His plan was highly conducive to poetical effect; but its incor- 
rectness must not be overlooked in an estimate of his delineation of human character. In his tragedies 
there is much vigor; but their finest passages are either soliloquies or descriptions, and their highest 
beauties are seldom of a strictly dramatic nature. Many of his dialogues are scarcely more than inter- 
rupted soliloquies; many of his arguments such as one mind would hold with itself. In fact, in his 
characters, there is seldom that degree of variety and contrast which is requisite for dramatic effect. 
The opposition was rather that of situation than of sentiment; and we feel that the interlocutors, if 
transposed, might still have uttered the same things. 

It is to be deplored that scarcely any moral good is derivable from the splendid poetry of Lord 
Byron. The tendency of his works is to shake our confidence in virtue, and to diminish our abhorrence 
of vice; — to palliate crime, and to unsettle our notions of right and wrong. Even many of the virtuous 
sentiments which occur in his writings are assigned to characters so worthless, or placed in such close 
juxtaposition with vicious sentiments, as to induce a belief that there exists no real, definable boundary; 
and it may perhaps be said with truth, that it would have been better for the cause of morality if even 
those virtuous sentiments had been omitted. Our sympathy is frequently solicited in the behalf of crime. 
Alp, Conrad, Juan, Parisina, Hugo, Lara, and Manfred may be cited as examples. They are all inter- 
esting and vicious. In the powerful drama of Cain, the heroes are Lucifer and the first murderer; and 
the former is depicted, not like the Satan of Milton, who believes and trembles, but as the compassionate 
friend of mankind. Resistance to the will of the Creator is represented as dignified and commendable; 
obedience and faith as mean, slavish, and contemptible. It is implied that it was unmerciful to have 
created such as we are, and that we owe the Supreme Being neither gratitude nor duty. Such senti- 
ments are clearly deducible from this drama. Whether they were those of Lord Byron is not certain; 
but he must be held accountable for their promulgation. 



CONTENTS. 



Life of Lord Byron iii 

Hours of Idleness i 

Preface to the First Edition i 

On the Death of a Young Lady ... 3 

ToE 3 

ToD 3 

Epitaph on a Friend 4 

A Fragment 4 

On leaving Newstead Abbey 4 

Lines written in Rousseau's " Letters of 

an Italian Nun " 5 

Answer to the Foregoing 5 

Adrian's Address to his Soul 5 

Translation from Catullus. Ad Lesbiam, 6 
Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and 

Tibullus 6 

Imitation of Tibullus 6 

Translation from Catullus 6 

Imitated from Catullus 6 

Translation from Horace 6 

From Anacreon 7 

From Anacreon 7 

From the Prometheus Vinctus of .^s- 

chylus . . . . , 7 

To Emma 8 

To M. S. G 8 

To Caroline 8 

To Caroline 9 

To Caroline 9 

To a Lady, with the Poems of Camoens . 9 

The First Kiss of Love 10 

On a Change of Masters at a Great Public 

School 10 

To the EKike of Dorset 10 

Fragment — the Marriage of Miss Cha- 

worth 12 

Granta. A Medley 12 

On a Distant View of Harrow .... 13 

ToM 14 

To Woman %....«..,., 14 



PAGE 

To M. S. G 15 

To Mary, on receiving her Picture . . . 15 

To Lesbia ' . . . . 15 

Lines addressed to a Young Lady ... 16 

Love's Last Adieu 16 

Damsetas 17 

To Marion 17 

To a Lady 17 

Oscar of Alva 18 

Nisus and Euryalus 21 

Translation from the Medea of Euripides, 25 
Thoughts suggested by a College Exami- 
nation 26 

To a Beautiful Quaker 27 

The Cornelian 28 

An Occasional Prologue 28 

On the Death of Fox 29 

The Tear 29 

Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot . 30 

To the Sighing Strephon 30 

To Eliza 31 

Lachin y Gair 31 

To Romance 32 

Answer to some Verses 33 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey 33 

Childish Recollections 36 

Answer to " The Common Lot "... 42 

To a Lady 42 

Remembrance 43 

Lin.;s to the Rev. J. T. Becher .... 43 

The Death of Calmar and Orla .... 43 

L'Amiti^ est I'Amour sans Ailes. ... 45 

The Prayer of Nature 46 

To Edward Noel Long 47 

To a Lady 48 

I would I were a Careless Child ... 48 

When I roved a Yoyng Highlander . . 49 

To George, Earl Delawarr 50 

To the Earl of Clare 51 

Lines written beneath an Elm at Har- 
row . , « , , 58 



xii 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Occasional Pieces, 1807-24. 

The Adieu 53 

To a Vain Lady 54 

To Anne 54 

To the Same 54 

To the Author of a Sonnet 55 

On finding a Fan 55 

Farewell to the Muse 55 

To an Oak at Newstead 56 

On revisiting Harrow 56 

Epitaph on John Adams of South- 
well 57 

To my Son 57 

Farewell! if ever fondest Prayer ... 57 

Bright be the Place of thy Soul .... 57 

When we two parted 58 

To a Youthful Friend 58 

Lines upon a Cup formed from a 

Skull 59 

Well! thou art happy 59 

On the Monument of a Newfoundland 

Dog 59 

To a Lady, on being asked my reason for 

quitting England 60 

Remind me not, remind me not .... 60 

There was a time, I need not name . . 61 

And wilt thou weep when I am low . . 61 

Fill the Goblet again 61 

Stanzas to a Lady, on leaving Eng- 
land 62 

Lines in an Album at Malta 62 

To Florence 62 

Stanzas composed during a Thunder- 
storm -63 

Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian 

Gulf 64 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown . 64 

After swimming from Sestos to Abydos . 64 

Maid of Athens, ere we part 65 

My Epitaph 65 

Substitute for an Epitaph 66 

Lines in the Traveller's Book at Orcho- 

menus 66 

Translation of the Greek War Song, 

" AeOre TratSes," etc 66 

Translation of a Romaic Song .... 66 

Lines written beneath a Picture .... 67 

On Parting 67 

Epitaph for Joseph Blackett 67 

Farewell to Malta 67 

To Dives 68 

On Moore's last Operatic Farce .... 68 



PAGE 

Epistle to a Friend 68 

To Thyrza 69 

Away ! away ! ye Notes of Woe ... 70 

One struggle more and I am free ... 70 

Euthanasia 70 

And thou art dead, as young and fair . . 71 

If sometimes in the haunts of men ... 71 

From the French 72 

On a Cornelian Heart 72 

Lines to a Lady weeping 72 

The Chain I gave 72 

Lines written in the *' Pleasures of 

Memory " 72 

Address at the Opening of Drury Lane 

Theatre 73 

Parenthetical Address, by Dr. Plagiary . 74 
Verses found in a Summer-House at 

Hales-Owen 75 

Remember Thee ! remember Thee! . . 75 

To Time 75 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song . . 75 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle . . 76 

On being asked the Origin of Love . . 76 

Remember him whom Passion's power . 76 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems 77 

To Lord Thurlow 77 

To Thomas Moore 77 

Impromptu, in reply to a Friend ... 78 

Sonnet, to Genevra 78 

Sonnet, to the Same 78 

From the Portuguese (Tu me chamas) . 78 

Another Version 78 

The Devil's Drive: An Unfinished Rhap- 
sody 78 

Windsor Poetics. Lines composed on the 
Occasion of His Royal Highness the 
Prince Regent being seen standing be- 
tween the Coffins of Henry VIH. and 

Charles I., at Windsor 80 

Stanzas for Music. " I speak not," tftc . 80 
Address intended to be recited at the Cale- 
donian Meeting 80 

Fragment of an Epistle to Thomas Moore, 81 
Condolatory Address to Sarah, Countess 

of Jersey 81 

To Belshazzar 82 

Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir Peter 

Parker, Bart 82 

Stanzas for Music. " There's not a Joy," 

etc 83 

Stanzas for Music. " There be none of 

Beauty's Daughters," etc 83. 



CONTENTS. 



Occasional Pieces {continued). 

On Napoleon's Escape from Elba ... 83 
Ode from the French. " We do not curse 

thee, Waterloo " 83 

From the French. "Must thou go, my 

glorious Chief ? " 84 

On the Star of " The Legion of Honor." 

From the French 85 

Napoleon's Farewell. From the French . 85 
Endorsement to the Deed of Separation, 

in the April of 1816 86 

Darkness 86 

Churchill's Grave : a fact literally ren- 
dered 87 

Prometheus 88 

A Fragment. " Could I remount," etc. 88 

Sonnet to Lake Leman 89 

Stanzas for Music. " Bright be the Place 

of thy Soul!" 89 

A very mournful Ballad on the Siege and 

Conquest of Alhama 89 

Sonetto di Vittorelli 92 

Translation from Vittorelli 92 

On the Bust of Helen by Canova ... 92 
Stanzas for Music. " They say that Hope," 

etc 92 

Song for the Luddites 93 

Versicles 93 

" So we'll go no more a-roving "... 93 
To Thomas Moore. " What arc you do- 
ing now?" 93 

To Mr. Murray. " To hook the Reader," 

«c 93 

To Thomas Moore. " My Boat is on the 

Shore," etc 94 

Epistle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori, 94 
Epistle to Mr. Murray. " My dear Mur- 
ray," etc 95 

To Mr. Murray. " Strahan, Tonson, 

Lintot," etc 95 

On the Birth of John William Rizzo 

Hoppner 95 

Stanzas to the Po 95 

Epigram. From the French of Rulhi- 

^res 96 

Sonnet to George IV., on the Repeal of 

Lord Edward Fitzgerald's Forfeiture . 96 
Stanzas. " Could Love forever," etc. . 97 

On my Wedding Day 98 

Epitaph for William Pitt 98 

Epigram. " In digging up your Bones," 
etc 98 



PAGfi 

Stanzas. " When a Man hath no Free- 
dom," etc 98 

Epigram. " The World is a Bundle of 

Hay," etc 98 

The Charity Ball ; . . 98 

Epigram on the Brazier's Company hav- 
ing resolved to present an Address to 

Queen Caroline 98 

Epigram on my Wedding Day. To 

Penelope 98 

On my Thirty-Third Birthday .... 98 

Martial, Lib. i., Epig. i 99 

Bowles and Campbell 99 

Epigrams on Castlereagh 99 

Epitaph on the Same 99 

John Keats 99 

The Conquest 99 

To Mr. Murray. " For Orford and for 

Waldegrave" 99 

The Irish Avatar 100 

Stanzas written on the Road between 

Florence and Pisa 102 

Stanzas to a Hindoo Air 102 

Impromptu 103 

To the Countess of Blessington .... 103 
On this Day I complete my Thirty-Sixth 

Year 103 

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A 

Satire 104 

Hints from Horace: Being an Allusion 
IN English Verse to the Epistle " Ad 

Pisones, de Arte Poetica " 126 

The Curse of Minerva 141 

The Waltz 145 

Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte 151 

Hebrew Melodies 15^ 

" She walks in beauty " 154 

" The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept," i5<( 

" If that high World" 15 = 

" The wild Gazelle " 15 = 

" Oh weep for those " 155 

" On Jordan's Banks " 155 

Jephtha's Daughter 156 

"Oh snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom" 156 

" My Soul is dark" 156 

*' I saw thee weep " 156 

" Thy days are done " 156 

Song of Saul before his last Battle . . . 157 

Saul 157 

All is Vanity, saith the Preacher ... 157 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Hebrew Melodies {contimted'). 

" When Coldness wraps this suffering 

Clay" 158 

Vision of Belshazzar 158 

" Sun of the Sleepless " 158 

" Were my Bosom as false as thou deem'st 

it to be" 159 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne .... 159 
On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusa- 
lem by Titus 159 

By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down 

and wept 160 

The Destruction of Sennacherib • . . 160 

A spirit passed before me. From Job . 160 

Domestic Pieces i6i 

" Fare thee well " 161 

A Sketch. " Born in the Garret, " etc. . 162 
Stanzas to Augusta. " When all around," 

etc 163 

To the same. " Though the Day of my 

Destiny's over " 164 

Epistle to the same. " My Sister, my 

sweet Sister" 164 

Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was 

ill 166 

Monody on the Death of the Right Hon. 

R. B. Sheridan 167 

The Dream 169 

The Lament of Tasso 172 

Ode on Venice 176 

Beppo. a Venetian Story 178 

The Prophecy of Dante 190 

Canto the First 192 

Canto the Second 194 

Canto the Third 196 

Canto the Fourth 198 

Francesca of Rimini. From Dante . . 201 
The Morgante Maggioreof Pulci. Canto 

First 204 

The Blues: A Literary Eclogue ... 221 

The Vision of Judgment 228 

The Age of Bronze: or, Carmen Secu- 
lars et Annus haud Mirabilis . . . 246 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 256 

To lanthe 258 

Canto the First 258 

Canto the Second 276 

Appendix to Canto the Second .... 292 

Canto the Third 301 



page 

Canto the Fourth 321 

Historical Notes to Canto the Fourth . . 349 

The Giaour 374 

The Bride of Abydos 390 

Canto the First 391 

Canto the Second 397 

The Corsair 406 

Canto the First 408 

Canto the Second 415 

Canto the Third 422 

Lara 432 

Canto the First 432 

Canto the Second 439 

The Siege of Corinth 447 

Parisina 460 

The Prisoner of Chillon ...... 468 

Mazeppa 474 

The Lsland 482 

Canto the First 483 

Canto the Second 487 

Canto the Third 493 

Canto the Fourth 496 

Manfred: A Dramatic Poem 501 

Marino Falieko, Doge of Venice: An 

Historical Tragedy 524 

Sardanapalus: A Tragedy 580 

TheTwoFoscari: An Historical Tragedy, .622 

Cain : A Mystery 653 

Heaven and Earth : A Mystery ... 682 
The Deformed Transformed: A Drama, 697 
Werner; or, The Inheritance: A Trag- 
edy 716 

Don Juan 761 

Canto the First 763 

Canto the Second 776 

Canto the Third 790 

Canto the Fourth 798 

Canto the Fifth 807 

Canto the Sixth 812 

Canto the Seventh 816 

Canto the Eighth 820 

Canto the Ninth 826 

Canto the Tenth 830 

Canto the Eleventh 833 

Canto the Twelfth 835 

Canto the Thirteenth 838 

Canto the Fourteenth 843 

Canto the Fifteenth 846 

Canto the Sixteenth 851 



HOURS OF IDLENESS : 

A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 

[first published in 1807.] 

" Mijt' ap fie /xa\' alvee firjTe rt vei'/cei." — HoMER, Iliad, x. 249. 
" He whistled as he went, for want of thought." — Dryden. 
" Virginibus puerisque canto." — Horace, lib. 3, ode i. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 

FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC., 

THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS 

OBLIGING WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN,^ 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.^ 

In submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only to combat the difficulties 
that writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself 
on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed. 

These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately completed his 
nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary 
information. Some few were written durng the disadvantages of illness and depression of spirits; under 
the former influence, " Childish Recollections," in particular, were composed. This consideration, 
though it cannot excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable 
portion of these poems has been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my friends. I 
am sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by 
which poetical genius is to be estimated, yet "to do greatly," we must "dare greatly; " and I have 
hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. " I have crossed the Rubicon," and must 

^ Isabel, daughter of William, fourth Lord Byron (great-great uncle of the Poet), became, in 1742, 
the wife of Henry, fourth Earl of Carlisle, and was the mother of the fifth Earl, to whom this dedication 
was addressed. The lady was a poetess in her way. The Fairy's Answer to Mrs. Greville's " Prayer 
of Indifference," in Pearch's Collection, is usually ascribed to her. 

- This preface was omitted in the second edition. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



stand or fall by the " cast of the die." In the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur; for, though 
not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is 
probable that I may have dared much, and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, *' it is one thing to 
write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biased in our favor, 
and another to write what may please everybody ; because they who have no connection, or even knowl- 
edge, of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can." To the truth of this, however, I do not 
wholly subscribe; on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. 
Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed: their numerous faults, on the other hand, 
cannot expect that favor which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and fai 
greater ability. 

I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation: 
some translations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces, there may appeal 
a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been 
guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would 
be a Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is 
not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant 
hour, urged me "to this sin : " little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty 
as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading 
leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accus- 
tomed in my younger days to rove, a careless mountaineer, on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, 
of late years, had the benefit of such pure air or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the 
lists with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, 
and a few not less profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, 
certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to 
others " virum volitare per ora." I look to the few who will hear with patience " dulce est desipere in 
loco." To the former worthies I resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself 
with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst " the mob of gentlemen who write; " — my 
readers must determine whether I dare say " with ease," or the honor of a posthumous page in " The 
Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors," — a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, 
inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the 
obscurity which unluckily overshadows several voluminous productions of their illustrious bearers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first and last attempt. To the dictates of young 
ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age the 
contents may afford amusement: I trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, 
from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; 
nor even, in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future tres- 
pass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine,i " That 
when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely 
allowed," can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical, censors; but were it otherwise, 
I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitterest censure of anony- 
mous criticism, than triumph in honors granted solely to a title. 

1 The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public applause, to which, by 
their intrinsic worth, they were well entitled. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, ! 

COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY 
DEAR TO HIM.l 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening 
gloom, 

Not e'en a zephyrwanders through the grove. 
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb. 

And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay. 
That clay, where once such animation 
beam'd ; 
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, 
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life re- 
deem'd. 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal. 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit 
soars 
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of 
day; 
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds re- 
pay. 

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven ar- 
raign. 

And, madly, godlike Providence accuse ? 
Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ; — 

I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear. 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; 

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear. 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 

1802.2 



1 The author claims the indulgence of the reader 
more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the 
collection; but as it was written at an earlier period 
than the rest (being composed at the age of four- 
teen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it 
to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, 
to making either addition or alteration. 

2 [" My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. I 
It was the ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, | 
Margaret Parker (daughter and grand-daughter of 
the two Admirals Parker), one of the most beauti- | 



TO E .8 

Let Folly smile, to view the names 
Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 

To love, than rank with vice combined. 

And though unequal is thy fate, 
Since title decked my higher birth 1 

Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 

Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

Our souls at least congenial meet, 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercourse is not less sweet, 
Since worth of rank supplies the place. 
November, 1802. 



TO D . 

In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whom death alone could sever; 
Till envy, with malignant grasp. 

Detached thee from mv breast for ever. 



ful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten the 
verse; but it would be difficult for me to forget her 
— her dark eyes — her long eye-lashes — her com- 
pletely Greek cast of face and figure! I was then 
about twelve — she rather older, perhaps a year. She 
died about a year or two afterwards, in consequence 
of a fall, which injured her spine, and induced con- 
sumption. Her sister Augusta (by some thought 
still more beautiful) died of the same malady; and 
it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met 
with the accident which occasioned her death. My 
sister told me, that when she went to see her, shortly 
before her death, upon accidentally mentioning my 
name, Margaret colored, throughout the paieness of 
mortality, to the eyes, to the great astonishment of 
my sister, who knew nothing of our attachment, nor 
could conceive why my name should affect her at 
such a time. I knew nothing of her illness — being 
at Harrow and in the country — till she was gone. 
Some years after, I made an attempt at an elegy — 
a very dull one. I do not recollect scarcely any thing 
equal to the transparent beauty of my cousin, or to 
the sweetness of her temper, during the short period 
of our intimacy. She looked as if she had been made 
out of a rainbow — all beauty and peace." — Byron s 
Diary, 1821.] 

•■* [This little poem, and some others in the collec- 
tion, refer to a boy of Byron's own age, son of one 
of his tenants at Newstead, for whom he had formed 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



True, she has forced thee from my breast, 
Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 

There, there thine image still must rest, 
Until that heart shall cease to beat. 

And, when the grave restores her dead, 
When life again to dust is given, 

On thy dear breast I'll lay my head — 
Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 
February, 1803. 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

" 'AcTTTjp ttpiv fxey cAa/aTres ivl ^oiolatv eipos." 

Laertius. 

Oh Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear! 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honored 

bier! 
What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath. 
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of 

death ! 
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force ; 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay. 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 
Thy comrade's honor and thy friend's delighti 
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie. 
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb. 



a romantic attachment, previous to any of his school 
intimacies.] 

1 From this point the lines in the private edition 
were entirely different: 

" Tho7igh low thy lot, since in a cottage born 
No titles did thy humble name adorn, 
To ine, far dearer was thy artless love 
Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends 

could prove: 
For thee alone I lived, or wished to live; 
Oh God! if impious, this rash %yord forgive! 
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom, 
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb; 
Where, this frail form composed in endless rest, 
I'll make my last cold pillow on thy breast; 
That breast where oft in life I've laid my head. 
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead; 
This life resigned, without one parting sigh, 
Together in one bed of earth we'll lie! 
Together share the fate to mortals given; 
Together mix our dust, and hope for heaven." 
The epitaph is supposed to commemorate the 
youth who is the subject of the verses " To 

E ." The latter piece was omitted in the 

published volume, which, coupled with the oblit- 
eration of every allusion to his humble origin in 
the epitaph, led Moore to infer that growing pride 
of rank made Byron ashamed of the plebeian 
friendship.] 



Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will 

cheer. 
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 
But, who with me shall hold thy former place? 
Thine image, what new friendship can efface? 
Ah, none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow. 
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; 
To all, save one, is consolation known. 
While solitary friendship sighs alone. 

1802. 



A FRAGMENT. 

When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns 
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! 
No lengthened scroll, no praise-encumbered 

stone ; 
My epitaph shall be my name alone : 2 
If that with honor fail to crown my clay, 
Oh ! may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
That, only that, shall single out the spot ; 
By that remembered, or with that forgot. 

1803. 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.8 

" Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged 
days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a 
few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls 
in thy empty court." — OssiAN. 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the 
hollow winds whistle ; 
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to 
decay ; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and 
thistle 
Have choked up the rose which late 
bloomed in the way. 



- [By his will, drawn up in 1811, Byron directed, 
that " no inscription, save his name and age, should 
be written on his tomb;" and, in 1819, he wrote 
thus to Mr. Murray: — " Some of the epitaphs at 
the Cartosa cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more 
than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; 
for instance — 

' Martini Luigi 
Implora pace.' 
Can any thing be more full of pathos? I hope who- 
ever may survive me will see those two words, and 
no more, put over me."] 

3 [The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in 
Sherwood, was founded about the year 11 70, by 
Henry II. On the dissolution of the monasteries, it 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



Of the mail-covered Barons, who proudly to 
battle 
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's 
plain, 1 
The escutcheon and shield, which with every 
blast rattle. 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing 
numbers, 
Raise a fiame in the breast for the war- 
laurelled wreath ; 
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan 2 
slumbers. 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by 
death. 

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of 
Cressy ; 3 
For the safety of Edward and England they 
fell; 
My father ! the tears of your country redress 
ye; 
How you fought, how you died, still her 
annals can tell. 

On Marston,* with Rupert, 'gainst traitors 
contending. 
Four brothers enriched with their blood the 
bleak field ; 
For the rights of a monarch their country 
defending, 
Till death their attachment to royalty sealed. 

Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant 
departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you 
adieu ! 
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance im- 
parting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and 
you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separa- 
tion, 
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 



was granted by Henry VIII. to " Sir John Byron 
the Little, with the great beard," whose portrait is 
still preserved at Newstead.] 

• [There is no record of the Byrons having been 
engaged in the Holy Wars, and Moore conjectures, 
that the only authority for the notion was some 
groups of heads, which appear to represent Chris- 
tian soldiers and Saracens on the old panel-work at 
Newstead.] 

2 [Horistan Castle in Derbyshire was an ancient 
seat of the Byrons. Some ruins of it are yet visible 
in the park of Horseley.] 

' [Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as 
serving with distinction in the siege of Calais, under 
Edward III., and as among the knights who fell on 
the glorious field of Cressy.] 

* The battle of Marston Moor, where the adhe- 
rents of Charles I. were defeated. 



Far distant he goes, with the same emu- 
lation. 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can 
forget. 

That fame, and that memory, still will he 
cherish ; 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your 
renown ; 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish : 
When decayed, may he mingle his dust with 
your own ! 1803. 



LINES. 



WRITTEN IN " LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN 
AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN : BY J. J. 
ROUSSEAU : FOUNDED ON FACTS." 

" Away, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts ; 
And you will smile at their believing, 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED 
TO MISS . 

Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts. 
From which thou'dst guard frail female 

hearts. 
Exist but in imagination, — 
Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 
For he who views that witching grace, 
That perfect form, that lovely tace. 
With eyes admiring, oh ! believe me, 
He never wishes to deceive thee : 
Once in thy polished mirror glance, 
Thou'lt there descry that elegance 
Which from our sek demands such praises. 
But envy in the other raises : 
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty. 
Believe me, only does his duty : 
Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 
It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 

July, 1804. 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL 
WHEN DYING. 

[Animula! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes, comesque corporis. 
Quae nunc abibis in loca — 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, dabisjocos?] 

Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite. 
Friend and associate of this clay! 

To what unknown region borne. 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more with wonted humor gay. 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

AD LESBIAM, 

Equal to Jove that youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, 
Securely views thy matchless charms. 
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, 
That mouth, from whence such music flows 
To him, alike, are always known. 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah ! Lesbia ! though 'tis death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
Parched to the throat my tongue adheres, 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
My limbs deny their slight support. 
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread. 
With deadly languor droops my head, 
My ears with tingling echoes ring, 
And life itself is on the v\-ing ; 
My eyes refuse the cheering light. 
Their orbs are veiled in starless night: 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath. 
And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH 
ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

He who sublime in epic numbers rolled 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love. 

By Death's i unequal hand alike controlled, 
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 

" Sulpicia ad Cerin*hum." — Lib. 4. 

Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 
Which racks my breast your. fickle bosom 

please? 
Alas ! I wished but to o'ercome the pain. 
That I might live for love and you agaiif* 
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate : 
By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

[Lugete, Veneres, Ciipidinesque, etc.] 

Ye Cupids, droop each little head 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread, 

1 [The hand of Death is said to b~ unji-^t or 
unequal, as Virgil was consic'erably oldT tiian 
TibuUus at his decease.] 



My Lesbia's favorite bird is dead. 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 

For he was gentle, and so true, 

Obedient to her call he flew, 

No fear, no wild alarm he knew. 
But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 

And softly fluttering here and there, 
He never sought to cleave the air. 
But chirrupped oft, and, free from care, 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having passed the gloomy bourne 
From whence he never can return. 
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 

Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave. 
From whom no earthly power can save. 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; 
Thou art the cause of all her woe, 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 

TO ELLEN. 

Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire : 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss : 
Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever; 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavor : 
Could I desist? — ah! never — never! 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 

[Ju5tum et tenacem propositi virum, etc.] 

The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamors can control. 
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent : 
Gales the warring waves which plough. 

By Auster on the billows sent 
To curb the Adriatic main. 
Would awe his fixed determined mind in vain. 

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
With ali his terrors there unfurled. 

He would, unnT^ved, 'maw^d b«hp^^ 
Tht flame* 01 an expiring worid, 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Again in crashing chaos rolled, 
In vast promiscuous ruin hurled, 
Might light his glorious funeral pile : 
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd 
smile. 



FROM ANACREON. 

[©e'Ato Aeyeii' 'Arpeifia?, k. t. A.j 

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
To echo, from its rising swell. 
How heroes fought and nations fell, 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; 
But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre recurs to love alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war, my harp is due : 
With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again : 
Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs renowned in arms! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms I 
To other deeds my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal. 
To tell the tale my heart must feel ; 
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim. 
In songs of bliss and'sighs of flame. 



FROM ANACREON. 

[UleaovuKTiais tfo^^ oipai?, k. t. A.] 

'TWAS now the hour when Night had driven 

Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 

Bootes, only, seemed to roll 

His arctic charge around the pole; 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep. 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 

At this lone hour, the Paphian boy. 

Descending from the realms of joy, 

Quick to my gate directs his course. 

And knocks with all his little force. 

My visions fled, alarmed I rose, — 

" What stranger breaks my blest repose? " 

"Alas 1 " replies the wily child 

In faltering accents sweetly mild, 

"A hapless infant here I roam. 

Far from my dear maternal home. 

Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast ! 

The nightly storm is pouring fast. 

No prowling robber lingers here. 



A wandering baby who can fear? " 

I heard his seeming artless tale, 

I heard his sighs upon the gale : 

My breast was never pity's foe, 

But felt for all the baby's woe. 

I drew the bar, and by the light 

Young Love, the infant, met my sight; 

His bow across his shoulders flung. 

And thence his fatal quiver hung 

(Ah I little did I think the dart 

Would rankle soon within my heart). 

With care I tend my weary guest. 

His little fingers chill my breast; 

His glossy curls, his azure wing. 

Which droop with nightly shoM ers, I wring. 

His shivering limVjs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm, 

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 

Than swift he seized his slender bow : — 

" I fain would know, my gentle host," 

He cried, " if this its strength has lost; 

I fear, relaxed with midnight dews. 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies. 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 

Then loud the joyous urchin laughed : — 

" My bow can still impel the shaft : 

'Tis firmly fixed, thy sighs reveal it ; 

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it? " 



FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS 
OF ^SCHYLUS. 

[MrjfiajU.' 6 TravTtt vefiuiv, k. t. A.] 

Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 
Both gods and mortals homage pay. 

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown. 
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 

Oft shall the sacred victim fall 

In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; 

My voice shall raise no impious strain 
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 

How different now thy joyless fate, 

Since first Hesione thy bride. 
When placed aloft in godlike state. 
The blushing beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around. 
Nor yet thy doom was fixed, nor Jove relent- 
less frowned.i 

Harrow, Dec. i, 1804. 



^ [" My first Harrow verses, (that is, English, as 
Exercises,) a translation of a chorus from the Pro- 
metheus of iEschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, 
my grand patron (our head-master) , but coolly. No 
one had, at that time, the least notion that I should 
subside into poesy." —Byron's Diary.] 



HOURS OF WLEMESS. 



TO EMMA. 

Since now the hour is come at last, 

When you must quit your anxious lover; 

Since now our dream of bliss is past, 
One pang, my girl, and all is over. 

Alas ! that pang will be severe. 

Which bids us part to meet no more ; 

Which tears me far from one so dear, 
Departing for a distant shore. 

Well ! we have passed some happy hours. 
And joy v/ill mingle with our tears ; 

When thinking on these ancient towers. 
The shelter of our infant years ; 

Where from this Gothic casement's height. 
We viewed the lake, the park, the dell. 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 
We lingering look a last farewell. 

O'er fields through which we used to run. 
And spend the hours in childish play ; 

O'er shades where, when our race was done, 
Reposing on my breast you lay ; 

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss. 
Forgot to scare the hovering flies. 

Yet envied every fiy the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering eyes : 

See still the little painted bark. 

In which I rowed you o'er the lake ; 

See there, high waving o'er the park. 
The elm I clambered for your sake. 

These times are past — our joys are gone, 
You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 

These scenes I must retrace alone : 
Without thee what will they avail ? 

Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
The anguish of a last embrace ? 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 

This is the deepest of our woes, 

For this these tears our cheeks bedew : 

This is of love the final close, 
Oh, God ! the fondest, last adieu 1 



TO M. S. G. 

Whene'er I view those lips of thine. 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 

Yet, I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas ! it were unhallowed bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast. 
How could I dwell upon its snows ! 

Yet is the daring wish represt. 

For that, — would banish its repose. 

A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fear ; 



Yet I conceal my love, — and why ? 
I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well; 

And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 

No ! for thou never canst be mine, 
United by the priest's decree : 

By any ties but those divine, 

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 

Then let the secret fire consume, 

Let it consume, thou shalt not know : 

With joy I court a certain doom. 
Rather than spread its guilty glow, 

I will not ease my tortured heart. 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine ; 

Rather than such a sting impart, 

Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

\'es ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
More than I here shall dare to tell ; 

Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair, 
And hope no more thy soft embrace ; 

Which to obtain my soul would dare 
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 

At least from guilt shalt thou be free. 
No matron shall thy shame reprove ; 

Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE. 

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
Suffused in tears, implore to stay, 

And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs. 
Which said far more than words can say ? 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest. 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 

Throbbed with deep sorrow as thine own. 

But when our cheeks with anguish glowed. 
When thy sweet lips were joined to mine. 

The tears that from my eyelids flowed 
Were lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek. 
Thy gushing tears had quenched its flame, 

And as thy tongue essayed to speak. 
In sighs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain. 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore; 

Remembrance only can remain, — 
But that will make us weep the more. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret, 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget ! 



TO CAROLINE. 

When I hearyou express an affection so warm, 

Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not 

believe ; 

For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm , 

And your eye beams a ray which can never 

deceive. 

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, 
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the 
sear ; 
That age will come on, when remembrance, 
deploring. 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with 
a tear ; 

That the time must arrive, when, no longer 
retaining 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin 
to the breeze. 
When a few silver hairs of those tresses re- 
maining, 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 

'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom 
o'er my features. 
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign 
the decree 
Which God has proclaimed as the fate of his 
creatures, 
In the death which one day will deprive 
you of me. 

Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion. 
No doubt can the mind of your lover in- 
vade ; 
He worships each look with such faithful de- 
votion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall 
o'ertake us. 
And our breasts, which alive with such 
sympathy glow. 
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall 
awake us, 
When calling the dead in earth's bosom 
laid low, — 

Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, draughts 
of pleasure. 
Which from passion like ours may un- 
ceasingly flow; 
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in 
full measure. 
And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 

1805. 



TO CAROLINE. 

Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever my 
sorrow? 
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight 
from this clay? 
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 
But brings, with new torture, the curse of 
to-day. 

From my eye flows no tear from my lips flow 
no curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurled me 
from bliss ; 
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
Its querulous grief, when in anguish hke 
this. 

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury 
flakes bright'ning, 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no 
stream could assuage. 
On our foes should my glance launch in 
vengeance its lightning, 
With transport my tongue give a loose to 
its rage. 

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 
Would add to the souls of our tyrants de- 
light ; 
Could they view us our sad separation be- 
wailing. 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the 
sight. 

Yet still, though we bend with a feigned resig- 
nation. 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can 
cheer ; 
Love and hope upon earth bring no more 
consolation, 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our 
fear. 

Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they 
place me. 
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever 
are fled? 
If again in the mansion of death I embrace 
thee. 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the 
dead. 1805. 



STANZAS TO A LADY, 

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS.l 

This votive pledge of fond esteem. 

Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize ; 

It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
A theme we never can despise. 



^ [Lord Strangford's translation of Camoens's 
Amatory Poems was at this period a favorite study 
with Byron.] 



10 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Who blames it but the envious fool, 
The old and disappointed maid ; 

Or pupil of the prudish school, 
In single sorrow doomed to fade? 

Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read. 
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 

To thee in vain I shall not plead 
In pity for the poet's woes. 

He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 

His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
Like his, may love be thy reward. 

But not thy hapless fate the same.i 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 

'A ^ap|3tTos 6e ;^opSat9 

""SjpoiTa fiovvoy rjxei.. — Anacreon. 

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ; 
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has 
wove! 
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing 
glance. 
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss 
of love. 

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow. 
Whose pastoral passions are made for the 
grove ; 
From what blest inspiration your sonnets 
would flow. 
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of 
love! 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 
Or the Nine be disposed from your service 
to rove. 

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse. 
And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art : 
Though prudes may condemn me, and big- 
ots reprove, 
I court the effusions that spring from the heart. 
Which throbs with delight to the first kiss 
of love. 

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical 
themes, 
Perhaps rnay amuse, yet they never can 
move : 
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 
What are visions like these to the first kiss 
of love ? 

Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth. 
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness 
strove ; 

Some portion of paradise still is on earth, 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 



When age chills the blood, when our pleas- 
ures are past — 
For years fleet away with the wings of the 
dove — 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A 
GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL.2 

Where are those honors, Ida! once your 

own, 
When Probus filled your magisterial throne ? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace. 
Hailed a barbarian in her Caesar's place. 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate. 
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue swayed, 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules. 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
He governs, sanctioned but by self-applause. 
With him, the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom : 
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you, but the name. 
July, 1805. 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET.3 

Dorset ! whose early steps with mine have 

strayed. 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade; 
Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend, 



1 [Camoens ended in an alms-house a life of mis- 
fortunes.] 



2 [In March, 1805, Dr. Drury, the " Probus " of 
this piece, retired from his situation of head-master 
at Harrow, and was succeeded by Dr. Butler, the 
" Pomposus." Of the former Byron says in his 
Diary, " Dr. Drury, whom I plagued sufficiently, 
was the best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend 
I ever had; and I look upon him still as a father." 
Of Dr. Butler he says, — "I treated him rebel- 
liously, and have been sorry ever since."] 

3 In looking over my papers to select a few addi- 
tional poems for this second edition, I found the 
above lines, which I had totally forgotten, composed 
in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my 
departure from Harrow. They were addressed to a 
young schoolfellow of high rank, who had been my 
frequent companion in some rambles through the 
neighboring country : however, he never saw the 
lines, and most probably never will. As, on a re- 
perusal, I found them not worse than some other 
pieces in the collection, I have now published them, 
for the first time, after a slight revision. 

[George-John-Frederick, fourth Duke of Dorset, 
6orn November 15, 1793, was killed bv a fall from 
his horse, while hunting near Dublin, February 22, 
1815.] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Though the harsli custom of our youthful band 
Bade thee obey, and gave >iie to command ; ^ 
Thee, on whose head a few short years will 

shower 
The gift of riches and the pride of power; 
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renowned in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade control, 
Though passive tutors,^ fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes. 
And wink at f lults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
And even in simple boyhood's openins; dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
When these declare, "that pomp alone should 

wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
That books were only meant for drudging 

fools. 
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules ; " 
Believe them not; — they point the path to 

shame, 
And seek to blast the honors of thy name. 
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, 
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the 

wrong ; 
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 
Ask thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, for- 
bear; 
For well I know that virtue lingers there. 
Yes 1 I have marked thee many a passing 

day, 
But now new scenes invite me far away; 
Yes ! I have marked within that generous mind 
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
Ah ! though myself, by nature haughty, wild, 
Whom Indiscretion hailed her favorite child ; 
Though every error stamps me for her own. 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
Though my proud heart no precept now can 

tame, 
I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, 
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour; 
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride. 
With long-drawn names that grace no page 

beside ; 
Then share with titled crowds the common 

lot — 



1 At every public school the junior boys are com- 
pletely subservient to the upper t'onns till they attain 
a seat in the higher classes. From this stale of pro- 
bation, very properly no rank is exempt; but after 
a certain period, they command in turn those who 
succeed. 

2 Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, 
even the most distant. I merely mention generally 
what is too often the weakness of preceptors. 



In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 
While notight divides thee from the vulgar 

dead 
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the heraldls 

roll. 
That well-emblazoned but neglected scroll. 
Where lords, unhonored, in the tomb may find 
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 
That veil their dust, their follies, and their 

faults, 
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, 
In records destined never to be read. 
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
Exalted more among the good and wise, 
A glorious and a long career pursue, 
As first in rank, the first in talent too: 
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun ; 
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 

Turn to the annals of a former day ; 
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires dis- 
play. 
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth. 
And called, proud boast ! the British drama 

forth.3 
Another view, not less renowned for wit ; 
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; 
Bold in the field, and favored by the Nine; 
In every splendid part ordained to shine; 
Far, far distinguished from the glittering 

throng, 
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.^ 
Such were thy fathers ; thus preserve their 

name; 
Not heir to titles only, but to fame. 
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will 

close. 
To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship ail 

were mine : 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
And gild their pinions as the moments flew ; 
Peace, that reflection never frowned away. 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell ; 



2 [" Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, created 
Earl of Dorset by James I., was one of the earliest 
and brightest ornaments to the poetry of his coim- 
try, and the first who produced a regular drama." — 
Anderson' s Poets.] 

* ["Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, born in 
1637, and died in 1706, esteemed the most accom- 
plished man of his day, was alike distinguished in 
the voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy 
one of William III. He behaved with great gal- 
lantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on 
the day previous to which he composed his cele- 
brated song, ' To all you I>:id:es now at Land.' 
His character has been drawn in the highest colors 
by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve." — Ander- 
son's Poets. 1 



12 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Alas ! they love not long, who love so w^ell. 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hailed, as exiles hail their native shore. 
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 
Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace be- 
hind. 
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year. 
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same 

sphere. 
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate. 
May one day claim our suffrage for the state. 
We hence may meet, and pass each other 

by 
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe, 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race ; 
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice. 
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known 

voice : 
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings which perchance it 

ought. 
If these, — but let me cease the lengthened 

strain, — 
Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee 



great.-i 



1805. 



FRAGMENT. 

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE 
OF MISS CHAWORTH.2 

Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren. 
Where my thoughtless childhood strayed, 

How the northern tempests, warring. 
Howl above thy tufted shade 1 

Now no more, the hours beguiling. 

Former favorite haunts I see ; 
Now no more my Mary smiling 

Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 1805. 



^ [I have just been, or rather ought to be, very 
much shocked by the death of the Duke of Dorset. 
We were at school together, and there I was pas- 
sionately attached to him. Since, we have never 
met, but once, I think, since 1805 — and it would 
be a paltry affectation to pretend that I had any 
feeling for him worth the name. But there was a 
time in my life when this event would have broken 
my heart; and all I can say for it now is. that — it 
is not worth breaking. — Byroit's Letters, 1815.] 

* [Miss Chaworth was married to John Musters, 
Esq., in August, 1805.] 



GRANTA. A Medley. 

'Ap-yvpeais Ko-^yaiai. fia^^ov, *cai navra Kpar^o-eis. 

Oh ! could Le Sage's 3 demon's gift 

Be realized at my desire. 
This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on St. Mary's spire. 

Then would, unroofed, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display ; 
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls, 

The price of venal votes to pay. 

Then would I view each rival wight, 

Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
Who canvass there with all their might, 

Against the next elective day.* 

Lo ! candidates and voters lie. 
All lulled in sleep, a goodly number: 

A race renowned for piety. 

Whose conscience won't disturb their 
slumber. 

Lord Hawke, indeed, may not demur ; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
They know preferment can occur 

But very seldom, — now and then. 

They know the Chancellor has got 

Some pretty livings in disposal : 
Each hopes that one may be his lot, 

And therefore smiles on his proposal. 

Now from the soporific scene 

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
To view, imheeded and unseen, 

The studious sons of Alma Mater. 

There, in apartments small and damp. 
The candidate for college prizes 

Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

He surely well deserves to gain them, 
With all the honors of his college. 

Who, striving hardly to obtain them. 
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 

Who sacrifices hours of rest 

To scan precisely metres attic ; 
Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic : 

Who reads false quantities in Seale,5 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 



3 The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmo- 
deus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated 
situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection. 

* [On the death of Mr. Pitt, in January, 1806, 
Lord Henry Petty and Lord Palmerston were can- 
didates to represent the University of Cambridge 
in Parliament.] 

B Scale's publication on Greek Metres displays 
considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



13 



Deprived of many a wholesome meal ; 
In barbarous Latin i doomed to wrangle : 

Renouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring to the lettered sage, 

The square of the hypothenuse 2 

Still, harmless are these occupations. 
That hurt none but the hapless student. 

Compared with other recreations, 
Which bring together the imprudent ; 

Whose daring revels shock the sight, 
When vice and infamy combine, 

When drunkenness and dice invite, 
As every sense is steeped in wine. 

Not so the methodistic crew, 

Who plans of reformation lay : 
In humble attitude they sue, 

And for the sins of others pray : 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit. 

Their exultation in their trial, 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

'Tis morn : — from these I turn my sight. 

What scene is this which meets the eye? 
A numerous crowd, arrayed in white,^ 

Across the green in numbers fly. 

Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 

'Tis hushed: — what sounds are these I 
hear? 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the listening ear. 

To this is joined the sacred song, 
The royal minstrel's hallowed strain ; 

Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 

Our choir would scarcely be excused. 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 

All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners. 

If David, when his toils were ended. 

Had heard these blockheads sing before 
him. 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended, — 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 

The luckless Israelites, when taken 
By some inhuman tyrant's order, 



expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable 
for accuracy. 

1 The Latin of ihe schools '\i,o^\\\^ canine species, 
and not very intelligible. 

- The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square 
of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the 
other two sides of a right angled triangle. 

^ On a saint's day, the students wear surplices in 
chapel. 



Were asked to sing, by joy forsaken, 
On Babylonian river's border. 

Oh I had they sung in notes like these. 

Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
They might have set their hearts at ease, 

The devil a soul had stayed to hear. 

But if I scribble longer now. 

The deuce a soul will stay to read : 

My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. 

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires ! 

No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires : 

The reader's tired, and so am I. j8o6. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VIL- 
LAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW 
ON THE HILL. 

Oh! mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos. 

Virgil. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved 
recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the 
past ; 
Where science first dawned on the powers of 
reflection, 
And friendships were formed, too romantic 
to last ; 4 

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resem- 
blance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief 
allied ; 
How welcome to me your ne'er fading re- 
membrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is 
denied! 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 
The streams where we swam, and the 
fields where we fought ; 5 
The school where, loud warned by the bell, 
we resorted. 
To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues 
taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have pon- 
dered. 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone 6 I 
lay; 



* [" My school-friendships were with mcpassious 
(for I was always violent), but 1 do not know that 
there is one which has endured (to be sure some 
h:ive been cut short by death) till now." — Byron's 
Diary, 1821.] 

^ ["At Harrow I fought my way verj' fairly. I 
think I lost but one battle out of seven." — Ibid.'\ 

6 A tomb in the churchyard at Harrow was so 



14 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I 
wandered, 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting 
ray. 

I once more view the room, with spectators 

surrounded. 

Where, as Zanga,i I trod on Alonzo o'er- 
thrown ; 
While, to swell my young pride, such ap- 
plauses resounded, 

I fancied that Mossop 2 himself was out- 
shone : 

Or, as Lear, I poured forth the deep impre- 
cation, 
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason 
deprived ; 
Till, fired by loud plaudits 3 and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I re- 
gret you ! 
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast ; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget 
you : 
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me. 
While fate shall the shades of the future 
unroll ! 
Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect be- 
fore me, 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through the course of the years which 
await me. 
Some new scene of pleasure should open to 
view, 
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall 
elate me, 
" Oh ! such were the days which my infancy 
knew." 1806. 



TO M . 

Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire. 
With bright but mild affection shine. 

Though they might kindle less desire, 
Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 



well known to be his favorite resting-place, that the 
boys called it "Byron's Tomb;" and here, they 
say, he used to sit for hours, wrapt up in thought. — 
Moore.'\ 

^ [For the display of his declamatory powers, on 
the speech-days, he selected always the most vehe- 
ment passages ; such as the speech of Zanga over 
the body of Alonzo, and Lear's address to the storm. 
— Moore.^ 

- Mossop, r, contemporary of Garrick, famous for 
his performance of Zanga. 

''"Mv erand patron. Dr. Drury, had a great 
notion that I should turn out an orator, from my 



For thou art formed so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 

We must admire, but still despair; 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 

When Nature stamped thy beauteous birth, 
So much perfection in thee shone. 

She feared that, too divine for earth. 

The skies might claim thee for their own : 

Therefore, to guard her dearest work. 
Lest angels might dispute the prize. 

She bade a secret lightning lurk 
Within those once celestial eyes. 

These might the boldest sylph appall, 
When gleaming with meridian blaze ; 

Thy beauty must enrapture all ; 

But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 

'Tis said that Berenice's hair 

In stars adorns t!ie vault of heaven ; 

But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 

For did those eyes as planets roll. 

Thy sister-ligiits would scarce appear : 

E'en suns, which systems now control, 
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.^ 

1806. 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman ! experience might have told me 

That all must love thee who behold thee : 

Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are nought ; 

But, placed in all thy charms before me, 

All I forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh memory ! thou choicest blessing 

When joined with hope, when still possessing; 

But how much cursed by every lovcr 

When hope is fled and passion's over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver. 

How prompt are striplings to believe her! 

How throbs the pulse when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue. 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows ! 

How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth ! 

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye. 

When, lo ! she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

" Woman, thy vows are traced in sand." 5 



fluency, my turbulence, my voice, my copiousness 
of declamation, and my action." — Diary. 
•* " Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
Having some business, do intreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their spheres till they return." 
Shakspeare. 
" The last line is almost a literal translation from a 
Spanish proverb. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



15 



TO M. S. G. 
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely 
forgive ; 
Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone your affection can live, — 
I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast, 
Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the 
last, 
What rapture celestial is mine I 

rhey tell us that slumber, the sister of death. 

Mortality's emblem is given ; 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven 1 

Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft 
brow. 

Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now. 

Thus doonied but to gaze upon bliss. 

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you 
may smile, 
Oh ! think not my penance deficient ! 
When dreams of your presence my slumbers 
beguile, 
To awake will be torture sufficient. 



TO MARY, 

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.l 

This faint resemblance of thy charms. 
Though strong as mortal art could give, 

My constant heart of fear disarms, 
Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 

Here I can trace the locks of gold 
Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 

The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould, 
The Hps which made me beauty's slave. 

Here I can trace — ah, no! that eye, 
Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 

Must all the painter's art defy. 
And bid him from the task retire. 

Here I behold its beauteous hue ; 

But Where's the beam so sweetly straying 
Which gave a lustre to its blue. 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ? 

Sweet copy ! far more dear to me. 
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 



^ [Of this " Mary," who is not to be confounded 
with the heiress of Annesley, or " Mary " of Aber- 
deen, all I can record is, that she was of an humble, 
if not equivocal, station in life, — and that she hnd 
long light golden hair, of which he used to show a 



Than all the living forms could be. 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear. 

Lest time might shake my wavering soul. 

Unconscious that her image there 
Held every sense in fast control. 

Through hours, through years, through time; 
'twill cheer ; 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; 
In life's last conflict 'twill appear, 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



TO LESBIA. 

Lesbia ! since far from you I've ranged. 
Our souls with fond affection glow not ; 

You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
I'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. 

Your polished brow no cares have crost ; 

And, Lesbia ! we are not much older 
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 

Sixteen was then our utmost age. 

Two years have lingering past away, love ! 
And now new thoughts our minds engage, 

At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 

'Tis I that am alone to blame, 

I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
Caprice must be my only reason. 

I do not, love ! suspect your truth, 
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not ; 

Warm was the passion of my youth. 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 

No, no, my flame was not pretended; 

For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 
And — though our dream at last is ended — 

My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 

Absence has made me prone to roving ; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpaired. 
New beauties still are daily bright'ning. 

Your eye for conquest beams prepared. 
The forge of love's resistless lightning. 

Armed thus, to make their bosoms bleed. 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 

More constant they may prove, indeed ; 
Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love I 



lock as well as her picture, among his fricncfs. ^ 
Moore.'] 



16 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG 
LADY. 

[As the author was discharging his pistols in a gar- 
den, two ladies passing near the spot were alarmed 
by the sound of a bullet hissing near them; to one 
of whom the following stanzas were addressed the 
next morning.] ^ 

Doubtless, sweet girl ! the hissing lead, 
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, 

And hurtling o'er thy lovely head. 

Has filled that breast with fond alarms. 

Surely some envious demon's force, 
Vexed to behold such beauty here. 

Impelled the bullet's viewless course, 
Diverted from its first career. 

Yes ! in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obeyed some hell-born guide ; 
But Heaven, with interposing power, 

In pity turned the death aside. 

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 

Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, 
Extracted from its glistening cell : 

Say, what dire penance can atone 
For such an outrage done to thee ? 

Arraigned before thy beauty's throne, 
What punishment wilt thou decree? 

Might I perform the judge's part, 
I'he sentence I should scarce deplore ; 

It only would restore a heart 
Which but belonged to thee before. 

The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Thou shalt be all in all to me. 

But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject 

Such expiation of my guilt : 
Come then, some other mode elect; 

Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 

Choose then, relentless ! and I swear 
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent; 

Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 
Let it be aught but banishment. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 

'Act, 6' aei ju.e ^ejyet. — AnacrEON. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life. 
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pes- 
tilent dew. 



' [The occurrence took place at Southwell, and 
the beautiful lady to whom the lines were addressed 
was Miss Houson.] 



Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful 
knife. 
Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu ! 

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad 

heart, 

In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 

The chance of an hour may command us to 

part. 

Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief- 
swollen breast. 
Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may 
renew : " 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's 
represt. 
Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of 
youth 
Love twined round their childhood his 
flowers as they grew ; 
They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
Till chilled by the winter of love's last adieu ! 

Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in 
hue? 
Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey 
Thy reason has perished with love's last 
adieu ! 

Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning man- 
kind? 
From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the 
wind ; 
The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's eaoy 
chains 
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments 
knew; 
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his 
veins ; 
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt 
in steel ! 
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are 
few. 
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 
And dreads not the anguish of love's last 
adieu ! 

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
He spreads his young wing, he retires with 
the blast; 

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea declares that some penance is due : 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



17 



From him who has worshipped at love's gen- 
tle shrine, 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; 
His cypress the garland of love's last adieu 1 



DAM^TAS. 

In law an infant, i and in years a boy, 
In mind a slave to every vicious joy; 
From every sense of shame and virtue weaned ; 
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend; 
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child ; 
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from 

school ; 
Damaetas ran through all the maze of sin, 
And found the goal when others just begin : 
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul. 
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's 

bowl ; 
But, palled with vice, he breaks his former 

chain, 
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.2 



TO MARION. 

Marion ! why that pensive brow? 
What disgust to life hast thou? 
Change that discontented air ; 
Frowns become not one so fair. 
'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 
Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
He in dimpling smiles appears. 
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears. 
Or bends the languid eyelid down, 



1 In law every person is an infant who has not 
attained the age of twenty-one. 

2 [" When I went up to Trinity, in 1805, at the 
age of seventeen and a half, I was miserable and 
untoward to a degree. I was wretched at leaving 
Harrow — wretched at going to Cambridge instead 
of Oxford — wretched from some private domestic 
circumstances of different kinds ; and, consequently, 
about as unsocial as a wolf taken from the troop." 
— Diary. 'Moore adds, "The sort of life which 
young Byron led at this period, between the dissi- 
pations of London and of Cambridge, without a 
home to welcome, or even the roof of a sinj;le rela- 
tive to receive him, was but little calculated to ren- 
der him satisfied either with himself or the w. rid. 
Unrestricted as he was by deference to any will but 
his own, even the pleasures to which he was natu- 
rally most inclined prematurely palled upon him, 
for want of those best zests of all enjoyment — rarity 
and restraint." Byron evidently meant Damaetas 
for « portrait of himself.] 



But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire, 

Some will love, and all admire; 

While that icy aspect chills us, 

Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 

Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 

Smile at least, or seem to smile. 

Eves like thine were never meant 

To hide their orbs in dark restraint; 

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 

Still in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 

She blushes, curt'sies, frowns, — in short she 

Dreads lest the subject should transport me ; 

And flying off in search of reason, 

Brings prudence back in proper season. 

All I shall therefore say (whate'er 

I think, is neither here nor there) 

Is, that such lips, of looks endearing. 

Were formed for better things than sneering. 

Of soothing compliments divested, 

Advice at least's disinterested ; 

Such is my artless song to thee. 

From all the flow of flattery free ; 

Counsel like mine is as a brother's, 

My heart is given to some others ; 

That is to say, unskilled to cozen, 

It shares itself among a dozen. 

Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not 

This warning, though it may delight not ; 

And, lest my precepts be displeasing 

To those who think remonstrance teasing, 

At once I'll tell thee our opinion 

Concerning woman's soft dominion : 

Howe'er we gaze with admiration 

On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 

Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 

Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 

Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 

These cannot fix our souls to love : 

It is not too severe a stricture 

To say they form a pretty picture ; 

But wouldst thou see the secret chain 

Which binds us in your humble train. 

To hail you queens' of all creation. 

Know, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION. 



TO A LADY 

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK 
OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND 
APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO 
MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.^ 

These locks, which fondly thus entwine. 
In firmer chains our hearts confine. 
Than all th' unmeaning protestations 
Which swell with nonsense love orations. 



3 See ante, p. 15, note. 



18 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Our love is fixed, I think we've proved it, 

Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it ; 

Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, 

With groundless jealousy repine, 

With silly whims and fancies frantic. 

Merely to make our love romantic ? 

Why should you weep like L3'dia Languish, 

And fret with self-created anguisli? 

Or doom the lover you have chosen. 

On winter nights to sigh half frozen ; 

In leafless shades to sue for pardon. 

Only because the scene's a garden? 

For gardens seem, by one consent, 

Since Shakspeare set the precedent, 

Since Juliet first declared her passion, 

To form the place of assignation.! 

Oh ! would some modern muse inspire, 

And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; 

Or had the bard at Christmas written, 

And laid the scene of love in Britain, 

He surely, in commiseration, 

Had changed the place of declaration. 

In Italy I've no objection ; 

Warm nights are properfor reflection ; 

But here our climate is so rigid. 

That love itself is rather frigid : 

Think on our chilly situation. 

And curb this rage for imitation; 

Then let us meet, as oft we've done, 

Beneath the influence of the sun ; 

Or, if at midnight I must meet you. 

Within your mansion let me greet you : 

There we can love for hours together, 

Much better, in such snowy weather. 

Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 

That ever witnessed rural loves ; 

Then, if my passion fail to please. 

Next night I'll be content to freeze ; 

No more I'll give a loose to laughter, 

But curse my fate for ever after.2 



J In the above little piece the author has been ac- 
cused by some candid readers of introducing the 
name of a la iy from whom he was some hundred 
miles distant at the. time this was written; and poor 
Juliet, who has slept so long in " the tomb of all 
the Capulets," has been converted, with a trifling 
alteration of her name, into an English damsel, 
walking in a garden of their own creation, during 
the month of December, in a village where the 
author never p:issed a winter. Such has been the 
candor of som' ingenious critics. We would advise 
these liberal commentators, on taste and arbiters of 
decorum to read Shakspeare. 

2 Having heard that a very severe and indelicate 
censure has been passed on the above poem, I beg 
leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, 
" Carr's Stranger in France." — " As we were con- 
templating a painting on a large scale, in which, 
among other figures, is the unrovered whole length 
of a warrior, a prudisli-looking lady, who seemed to 
have touched the age of desperation, after having 
attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed 
to her party, that there was a great deal of indeco- 
rum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whis- 



OSCAR OF ALVA.3 



How sweetly shines through azure skies, 
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore ; 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise. 
And hear the din of arms no more. 

But often has yon rolling moon 
On Alva's casques of silver played ; 

And viewed, at midnight's silent noon. 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail arrayed : 

And on the crimsoned rocks beneath, 
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow. 

Pale in the scattered ranks of death, 
She saw the gasping warrior low ; 

While many an eye which ne'er again 
Could mark the rising orb of day, 

Turned feebly from the gory plain. 
Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light ; 

But now she glimmered from above, 
A sad, funereal torch of night. 

Faded is Alva's noble race. 
And gray her towers are seen afar ; 

No more her heroes urge the chase, 
Or roll the crimson tide of war. 

But, who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 

And when that gale is fierce and high, 
A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 

It rises hoarsely through the sky. 
And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs. 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 

But there no more his banners rise. 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth. 
When Angus hailed his eldest born ; 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

They feast upon the mountain deer. 
The pibroch raised its piercing note ; 4 



pered in my ear, ' that the indecorum was in the 
rem irk.'" 

3 The catastrophe of this tale was su.ggested by 
the story of " Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first 
volume of Schiller's " Armenian, or the Ghost- 
Seer." It also bears some resemblance to a scene 

i in the third act of " Macbeth." 

I ■* [Byron falls into a very common error, that of 
mistaking pibroch, which means a particular sort 
of tune, for the instrument on which it is played, the 
bagpipe.] 



Hqurs of idleness. 



19 



To gladden more their highland cheer, 
The strains in martial numbers float : 

And they who heard the war-notes wild 
Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 

Should play before the hero's child 
While he should lead the tartan train. 

Another year is quickly past, 

And Angus hails another son ; 
His natal day is like the last, 

Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 
The boys in childhood chased the roe, 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 

But ere their years of youth are o'er, 
They mingle in the ranks of war ; 

They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 
And send the whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 
Wildly it streamed along the gale ; 

But Alla'n's locks were bright and fair. 
And pensive seemed his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar owned a hero's soul, 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth ; 
Allan had early learned control, 

And smooth his words had been from youth 

Both, both were brave ; the Saxon spear 
W^as shivered oft beneath their steel ; 

And Oscar's bosom scorned to fear. 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 

While Allan's soul belied his form. 
Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 

Keen as the lightning of the storm. 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 

From high Southannon's distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame ; 

With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 

And Oscar claimed the beauteous bride, 
And Angus on his Oscar smiled : 

It soothed the father's feudal pride 
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ; 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 

Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 

Attending on their chieftain's call. 

It is not war their aid demands. 
The pibroch plays the song of peace; 

To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands. 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 



But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late : 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 

While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 

At length young Allan joined the bride : 
" Why comes not Oscar," Angus said : 

" Is he not here ? " the youth replied ; 
" With me he roved not o'er the glade : 

" Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; 

Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 

" Oh, no ! " the anguished sire rejoined, 
" Nor chase, nor wave, my boy delay; 

Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 
Would aught to her impede his way ? 

" Oh, search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around ! 

Allan, with these through Alva fly; 
Till Oscar, till my son is found, 

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 

All is confusion — through the vale 
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 

It rises on the murmuring gale. 
Till night expands her dusky wings ; 

It breaks the stillness of the night, 

But echoes through her shades m vain, 

It sounds through morning's misty light. 
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
For Oscar searched each mountain cave ; 

Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief. 
His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 

" Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heaven 
Restore the prop of sinking age 1 

Or if that hope no more is given, 
Yield his assassin to my rage. 

"Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
My Oscar's whitened bones must lie ; 

Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 
With him his frantic sire may die ! 

"Yet he may live, — away, despair! 

Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear ! 

God I my impious prayer forgive. 

"What, if he live for me no more, 

1 sink forgotten in the dust. 
The hope ot Alva's age is o'er : 

Alas ! can pangs like these be just ? " 

Thus did the hapless parent mourn. 
Till Time, who soothes severest woe, 

Had bade serenity return. 
And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 

For still some latent hope survived 
That Oscar might once more appear ; 



20 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



His hope now drooped and now revived, 
Till Time had told a tedious year. 

Days rolled along, the orb of light 
Again had run his destined race ; 

No Oscar blessed his father's sight, 
And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

For youthful Allan still remained, 

And now his father's only joy : 
And Mora's heart was quickly gained. 

For beauty crowned the fair-haired boy. 

She thought that Oscar low was laid. 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 

If Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claimed his faithless bosom's care. 

And Angus said, if one year more 
In fruitless hope was passed away, 

His fondest scruples should be o'er. 
And he would name their nuptial day. 

Slow rolled the moons, but blest at last 
Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 

The year of anxious trembling past, 
What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn ! 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd. 

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 

The sounds of mirth reecho loud. 
And all their former joy recall. 

But who is he, whose darkened brow 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth? 

Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 
The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form. 

And tall his plume of gory red; 
His voice is like the rising storm, 

But light and trackless is his tread. 

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaffed 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound. 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 

And all the clamorous crowd are hushed ; 
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 

And Mora's tender bosom blushed. 

" Old man 1 " he cried, " this pledge is done ; 

Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me ; 
It hailed the nuptials of thy son : 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 

" While all around is mirth and joy, 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 
Say, had'st thou ne'er another Ijoy ? 

Say, why should Oscar be forgot? " 



" Alas ! " the hapless sire replied. 
The big tears starting as he spoke, 

" When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
This aged heart was almost broke. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
Since Oscar's form has blest my sight ; 

And Allan is my last resource, 

Since mardal Oscar's death or flight." 

" 'Tis well," replied the stranger stern. 
And fiercely flashed his rolling eye; 

" Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

" Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
Would call, thy Oscar might return ; 

Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
For him thy Beltane i yet may burn. 

" Fill high the bowl the table round. 
We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 

With wine let every cup be crowned ; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

" With all my soul," old Angus said. 
And filled his goblet to the brim ; 

" Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall find a son like him." 

" Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 

But why does Allan trembling stand ? 
Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turned at once to ghastly hue ; 

The drops of death each other chase 
Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

" And is it thus a brother hails 
A brother's fond remembrance here ? 

If thus aff"ection's strength prevails, 
What might we not expect from fear ? " 

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl. 

" Would Oscar now could share our mirth ! ' 
Internal fear appalled his soul ; 

He said, and dashed the cup to earth, 

" 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice I " 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form; 

" A murderer's voice ! " the roof replies, 
And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink. 
The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew 



1 Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first 
of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion. 

[Beal-tain means the fire of Baal, and the name 
still preserves the primeval origin of this Celtic 
superstition.] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



21 



A form was seen in tartan green, 
And tall the shade terrific grew. 

His waist was bound with a broad belt round, 
Mis plume of sable streamed on high ; 

But his breast was bare, with the red wounds 
there, 
And fixed was the glare of his glassy eye. 

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild. 
On Angus bending low the knee ; 

And thrice he frowned on a chief on the 
ground, 
Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole. 
The thunders through the welkin ring. 

And the gleaming form, through the mist of the 
storm. 
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. 

Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
Oblivion pressed old Angus' breast, 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

" Away, away ! let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes : " 

His sand is done, — his race is run; 
Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay. 

His locks are lifted by the gale ; 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 

And whence the dreadful stranger came. 
Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 

But no one doubts the form of flame, 
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand. 
Exulting demons winged his dart ; 

While Envy waved her burning brand. 
And poured her venom round his heart. 

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow ; 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ? 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low. 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora's eye could Allan move. 
She bade his wounded priae rebel ; 

Alas ! that eyes which beam'd with love 
Should urge the soul to deeds of hell. 

Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 
Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 

It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 

Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; 
And o'er his corse no banners wave. 

For they were staiped with kiridred blQod, 



What minstrel gray, what hoary bard. 
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? 

The song is glory's chief reward. 

But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 

Unstrung, untouched, the harp must stand, 
No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand. 

His harp in shuddering chords would breaic. 

No lyre of fame, no hallowed verse. 
Shall sound his glories high in air : 

A dying father's bitter curse, 

A brother's death-groan echoes there. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND 
EURYALUS. 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ^NEID, LIB. IX. 

NiSUS the guardian of the portal, stood. 
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 
Well skilled in fight the quivering lance to 

wield, 
Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : 
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave. 
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 
To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 
With him Euryalus sustains the post ; 
No lovelier mien adorned the ranks of Troy, 
And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant 

boy. 
Though few the seasons of his youthful life. 
As yet a novice in the martial strife, 
'Twas his, with beauty, valor's gifts to share — ■ 
A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 
These burn with one pure flame of generous 

love; 
In peace, in war, united still they move ; 
Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 
And now combined they hold their nightly 

guard. 

" What God," exclaimed the first, " instils 
this fire ? 

Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 

My laboring soul, with anxious thought op- 
pressed. 

Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 

The love of fame with this can ill accord, 

Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 

Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling 
dim. 

Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy 
limb ? 

Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, 

And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 

Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen 
grief 

Our troops and leaders mourn their absent 
chief: 



22 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Now could the gifts and promised prize be 

thine 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine) , 
Were this decreed, beneath _von rising mound, 
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found ; 
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls. 
And lead /Eneas from Evander's halls." 

With equal ardor fired, and warlike joy. 
His glowing friend addressed the Dardan 

boy : — 
"These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare 

alone ? 
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ? 
Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 
As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
I tracked vEneas through the walks of fate : 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of 

fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns. 
And life, ignoble life, iox glojy spurns. 
Fame, fame is cheaply earned by fleeting 

breath : 
The price of honor is the sleep of death." 

Then Nisus, — "Calm thy bosom's fond 
alarms : 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valor than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 
But should I fall, — and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by 

chance, — 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow. 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low. 
Live thou ; such beauties I would fain pre- 
serve, 
Thy budding years a lengthened term deserve. 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by 

force. 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny, 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep? 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared. 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared; 
Who braved what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore," 
"In vain you damp the ardor of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus ; " it scorns control ! 
Hence, let us haste' " — Their brother guards 
arose. 



Roused by their call, nor court again repose; 
The pair, buoyed up on Hope's exulting wing. 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the 
king. 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And lulled alike the cares of brute and man ; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agreed. 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Each leaned upon the lance he well could 

wield. 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear : 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command, 
The elder first addressed the hoary band. 

" With patience " (thus Hyrtacides began) 
"Attend, nor judge from youth our humble 

plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam. 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow, 
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's 

brow, 
Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight. 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by 

night : 
Then shall ^neas in his pride return. 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's 

urn ; 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way , 
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray. 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed. 
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaimed, 
" Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye 

raise. 
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; 
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
Then in his warm embrace the boys he pressed, 
And, quivering, strained them 'to his aged 

breast ; 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedewed, 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renewed : 
" What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
Can we bestow, which you may not despise ? 
Our deities the first best boon have given - - 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



23 



Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on 

earth, 
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 
iEneas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
lulus then : — " By all the powers above I 
By those Penates who my country love ! 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, 
^Iy hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight. 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own, 
Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ! 
My sire secured them on that fatal day. 
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey : 
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
Two talents polished from the glittering mine ; 
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave. 
While yet our vessels pressed the Punic wave : 
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow 

down, 
When great ^'Eneas wears Hesperia's crown, 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal 

speed. 
Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive 

dames 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous 

flames, 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway 
The labors of to-night shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender 

years 
Are near my own, whose worth my heart 

reveies, 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun. 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike through life esteemed, thou godlike boy. 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 

To him Euryalus : — " No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favor, or the skies may frown. 
But valor, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart. 
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : 
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line. 
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 
Nor Troy nor king Acestcs' realms restrain 
Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unknown the secret enterprise I brave. 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek. 
No fainting mother's lips have pressed my 
cheek; 



By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose 

now : 
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain 
In thee her much-loved child may live again* 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless. 
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
So dear a hope m.ust all my soul inflame, 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt. 
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt: 
Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; 
Such love was his, and such had been his woe. 
" All thou hast asked, receive," the prince re- 
plied ; 
" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's i style but wanting to the dame. 
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run. 
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
Now, by my life! — my sire's most sacred 

oath — 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth. 
All the rewards which once to thee were vowed, 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestowed." 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to 

view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
For friends to envy and for foes to feel : 
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil. 
Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows. 
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
Armed, thence they go, while all th' assembled 

train 
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place : 
His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers 

avail. 
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! 

The trench is passed, and, favored by the 
night. 

Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary 
flight. 

When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? 

Alas I some slumber who shall wake no more ! 

Chariots and bridles, mixed with arms, are 
■ seen ; 

And flowing flasks, and scattered troops be- 
tween : 

Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; 

A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 

" Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood 
prepare. 

With me the conquest and the labor share : 

Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise. 



1 The mother of lulus, lost on the night when 
Troy was taken. 



24 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain 

dies: 
I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth re- 
pressed, 
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his 

panting breast : 
Stretched at his ease, th' incautious king re- 
posed ; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed : 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince. 
His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all. 
Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
Next Remus' armor-bearer, hapless, fell, 
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell ; 
The charioteer along his courser's sides 
Expires, the steel his severed neck divides ; 
And, last, his lord is numbered with the dead : 
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 
From the swollen veins the blackening tor- 
rents pour ; 
Stained is the couch and earth with clotting 

gore. 
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire. 
And gay Serranus, filled with youthful fire ; 
Half the long night in childish games was 

passed ; 
Lulled by the potent grape, he slept at last : 
Ah ! happier far had he the morn surveyed. 
And till Aurora's dawn his skill displayed. 

In slaughtered folds, the keepers lost in 

sleep. 
His hungry flings a lion thus may steep ; 
Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls : 
Insadate still, through teeming herds he 

roams ; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came. 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel. 
Yet wakeful Rhoesus sees the threatening steel ; 
His coward breast behind a jar he hides, 
And vainly in the weak defence confides; 
Full in his heart, the falchion searched his 

veins. 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as 

they flow. 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their 

way, 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray; 
There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatched, unheeded, on the herbage feed : 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm. 
Too flushed with carnage, and V/ith conquest 

warm • 



" Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is 

passed ; 
Full foes enough to-night have breathed their 

last: 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

What silver arms, with various art embossed. 
What bowls and mantles in confusion tossed, 
They leave regardless ! yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden 

belt 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they 

bend. 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined 

course : 
While the slow foot their tardy march delay. 
The knights, impatient, spur along the way : 
Three hundred mail-clad men.by Volscens led, 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped : 
Now they approach the trench, and view the 

walls, 
When, on the left, a light reflection falls; 
The plundered helmet, through the waning 

niglit. 
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 
" Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in 

arms ? 
From whence, to whom?" — He meets with 

no reply : 
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : 
The thicket's depth >vith hurried pace they 

tread, 
While round the wood the hostile squadron 

spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path be- 
tween. 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
The boughs and winding turns his steps mis- 
lead ; 
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze. 
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
" O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft. 
In what impending perils art thou left! " 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground, 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



25 



Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 

The sound elates, the sight his hope destroj's : 

The hapless boy a ruffian train surround. 

While lengthening shades his weary way con- 
found. 

Him with loud shouts the furious knights pur- 
sue, 

Struggling in vain, a captive to tlie crew. 

What can his friend 'gainst thronging num- 
bers dare ? 

All ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to 
share ? 

What force, what aid, what stratagem essay. 

Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 

His life a votive ransom nobly give, 

Or die with him for whom he wished to live ? 

Poising with strength his lifted lance on high. 

On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : — 

"Goddess serene, transcending every star! 

Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 

By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the 
grove, 

When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to 
rove ; 

If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 

Thine altars with the produce of the chase. 

Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting 
crowd. 

To free my friend, and scatter far the proud," 

Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung; 

Through parted shades the hurtling weapon 
sung; 

The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay. 

Transfixed his heart, and stretched him on the 
clay. 

He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze, 

Unconscious whence the death, with horror 
gaze. 

While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples 
riven. 

A second shaft with equal force is driven. 

Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering 
eyes; 

Veiled Vjy the night, secure the Trojan lies. 

Burning with wrath, he viewed his soldiers 
fall. 

" Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for 
all ! •' 

Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he 
drew. 

And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 

Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 

I'^orth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; 

Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise. 

And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies : 

" Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 

Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your 
own. 

Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! 
attest ! 

He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile con- 
fest! 



All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend ; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage 

remove. 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was 

love." 
He prayed in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents 

the air. 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower. 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower; 
Thus sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide. 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's 

ghost ; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on 

foe ; 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every 

blow ; 
In vain beneath unnumbered wounds he 

bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus 

heeds ; 
In viewless circles wheeled, his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found. 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the 

wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved — 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's em- 
brace ! 

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is 

fame ! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire, 
No future day shall see your names expire, 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! 
And vanquished millions hail their empress, 
Rome! 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA 
OF EURIPIDES. 

['Epoj-res VTTip y.€v ayav, k. t. A.] 

When fierce conflicting passions urge 
The breast where love is wont to glow. 

What mind can stem the stormy surge 
Which rolls the tide of human woe ? 

The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 
Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 



26 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



The wild desire, the guilty flame, 
Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But if affection gently thrills 

The soul l.iy purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching breast : 
If thus thou comest in disguise, 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow. 

Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 

With others wage internal war ; 
Repentance, source of future tears, 

From me be ever distant far ! 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love ! 
May all the hours be winged with jov, 

Which hover faithful hearts above ! 
Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 

May I with some fond lover sigh. 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine — 

With me to live, with me to die 1 

My native soil ! beloved before. 

Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 

A hapless banished wretch to roam ! 
This very day, this very hour. 

May I resign this fleeting brec4ih ! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower; 

A doom to me far worse than death. 

Have I not heard the exile's sigh, 

And seen the exile's silent tear. 
Through distant climes condemned to fly, 

A pensive weary wanderer here ? 
Ah ! hapless dame ! 1 no sire bewails. 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores. 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 

Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 

To fair affecdon's truth unknown, 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone; 
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key 2 

The milder treasures of his soul, — 
May such a friend be far from me, 

And ocean's storms between us roll ! 



1 Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was 
deserted by him for the daughter of Creon, king of 
that city. The chorus from which this is taken 
here addresses Medea; though a considerahle lib- 
erty is taken with the original, by expanding the 
idea, as also in some other parts of the translation. 

^ The original is " Ka')apaf avoi^ckvri KKr\ha. 
^pevZiv; " literally "disclosing the bright key of 
the mind." 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COL- 
LEGE EXAMINATION. 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus ^ his ample front sublime uprears : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god. 
While .Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his 

nod. 
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding 

dome 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskilled to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Though little versed in anv art beside ; 
W^ho, scarcely skilled an English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What, though he knows not how his fathers 

bled. 
When civil discord piled the fields with 

dead. 
When Edward bade his conquering bands 

advance. 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ; 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna 

Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made. 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid ; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fane. 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honors, medals, fellowships, await; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But lo ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope. 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
Th' ATHENIAN'S'! glowing style, or Tully's 

fire. 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try by speaking to convince. 
Be other orators of pleasing proud : 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the 

crowd : 
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan: 
No borrowed grace of action must be seen. 



3 No reflection is here intended against the person 
mentioned under the name of Magnus. He is 
merely represented as performing an unavoidable 
function of his office. Indeed, such an attempt 
could only recoil upon myself ; as that gentleman is 
now as much distinguished by his eloquence, and 
the dignified propriety with which he fills his situa- 
tion, as he was in his younger days for wit and con- 
viviality. 

[By " Magnus" Byron meant Dr. William Lort 
Mansel, Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, and 
afterwards Bishop of Bristol. He died in 1820.] 

* Demosthenes. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



27 



The slightest motion would displease the 

Dean ; i 
Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes f obtain the promised 

cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
No matter what, so it can 7iot be heard. 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
Who speaks the fastest's sure to speak the 

best ; 
Who utters most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie 
Unknown, unhonored live, unwept for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls. 
They think all learning fixed within their walls : 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
All modern arts affecting to despise, 
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's "^ 

note. 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
Vain as their honors, heavy as their ale,- 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to 

feel 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; 3 



1 [In most colleges, the Fellow who superintends 
the chapel service is called Dean.'\ 

- The present Greek professor at Trinity College, 
Cambridge, a man whose powers of mind and writ- 
ings may, perhaps, justify their preference. 

[" I remember to have seen Porson at Cambridge, 
in the hall of our college, and in private parties; 
and I never can recollect him except as drunk or 
brutil, and generally both: I mean in an evening; 
for in the hall, he dined at the Dean's table, and I 
at the Vice-master's; — and he then and there ap- 
peared sober in his demeanor; but I have seen him, 
in a private party of undergraduates, take up a 
poker to them, and heard him use language as 
blackguard as his action. Of all the disgusting 
brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was 
the most bestial, as far as the few times I saw him 
went. He was tolerated in this state amongst the 
young men for his talents; as the Turks think a 
madman inspired, and bear with him. He used to 
recite, or rather vomit, pages of all languages, and 
could hiccup Greek like a Helot: and certainly 
Sparta never shocked her children with a grosser 
exhibition than this man's into.xication." — Byron's 
Letters, i8i8.] 

3 Since this was written, Lord Heniy Petty has 
lost his place, and subsequently (I had almost said 
consequently) the honor of representing the Uni- 
versity. A fact so glaring Requires no comment. 
[Lord Hetm^ Petty became in 1809 the Marquess 
cf Lansdowne.] 



To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the 

head, 
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
But should a storm overwhelm him with dis 

grace. 
They'd fly to seek the next who filled his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures 

guard ! 
Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 
This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 

1806. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 

Sweet girl 1 though only once we met, 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
And though we ne'er may meet again, 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would not say, " I love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will : 
In vain, to drive thee from my breast, 
My thoughts are more and more represt ; 
In vain I check the rising sighs, 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke, 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals. 

And tells a tale it never feels : 

Deceit the guilty lips impart ; 

And hush the mandates of the heart ; 

But soul's interpreters, the eyes. 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed. 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed. 

No spirit, from within, reproved us. 

Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 

Though what they uttered I repress. 

Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess ; 

For as on thee my memory ponders, 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, I'll say. 

Thy form appears through night, through day. 

Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; 

The vision charms the hours away, 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray 

For breaking slumbers of delight. 

Which make me wish for endless night. 

Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 

Shall joy or woe my steps await, 

Tempted by love, by storms beset, 

Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas 1 again no more we meet. 
No more our former looks repeat; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 



28 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



" May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, 
That anguish never can o'ertake her ; 
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ! 
Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
To be, by dearest ties, related. 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover ! 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 'tis to feel the restless woe 
Which stings the soul, with vain regret. 
Of him who never can forget!" 

1806. 



THE CORNELIAN.i 

No specious splendor of this stone 
Endears it to my memory ever ; 

With lustre only once it shone. 
And blushes modest as the giver. 

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties. 
Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me ; 

Yet still the simple gift I prize, — 
For I am sure the giver loved me. 

He offered it with downcast look. 
As fearful that I might refuse it ; 

I told him when the gift I took. 
My only fear should be to lose it. 

This pledge attentively I viewed. 
And sparkling as I held it near, 

Methought one drop the stone bedewed, 
And ever since Fve loved a tear. 

Still, to adorn his humble youth. 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield ; 
But he who seeks the flowers of truth. 

Must quit the garden for the field. 

'Tis not the plant upreared in sloth. 
Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; 

The flowers which yield the most of both 
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 



Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
For once forgetting to bf blind, 

His would have been an ample share, 
If well proportioned to his mind. 

But had the goddess clearly seen. 
His form had fixed her fickle breast; 

Her countless hoards would his have been, 
And none remained to give the rest. 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORM- 
ANCE OF "THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT 
A PRIVATE THEATRE.'^ 

Since the refinement of this polished age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit. 
Which stamped disgrace on all an author writ ; 
Since now to please with purest scenes we seek. 
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 
Oh 1 let the modest Muse some pity claim. 
And meet indulgence, though she find not 

fame. 
Still, not for her alone w^e wish respect, 
Others appear more conscious of defect : 
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold. 
In all the arts of scenic action old ; 
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear ; 
To-night you throng to witness the dSui 
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; 
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly: 
Failing in this our first attempt to soar, 
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays. 
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your 

praise ; 
But all our dramatis personae wait 



^ [The cornelian of these verses was given to 
Byron by the Cambridge chorister, Eddlestone, 
whose musical talents first introduced him to the 
acquaintance of the poet, who entertained for him a 
sentiment of the most romantic friendship. 

On leaving his choir, Eddlestone entered into a 
mercantile house in the metropolis, and died of a 
consumption, in 181 1. Byron wrote to Mrs. Pigot, 
of Southwell, on hearing of his death, " You may 
remember a cornelian, which some years ago I con- 
signed to Miss Pigot, indeed gave to her, and nov/ 1 
I am about to make the most selfish and rude o( I 
requests. The person who gave it to me, when I I 
was very young, is dead, and though a long time 1 
has elapsed since we met, as it was the only me- 1 
mortal I possessed of that person (in whom I was 
very much interested), it has acquired a value by | 
th's '^"ent 1 could have wished it never to hn-ve 
borne iu my eyes. If, therefore, Miss Pigot should 



have preserved it, I must, under these circum- 
stances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be 
transmitted to me, and I will replace it by some- 
thing she may remember me by equally well." 
The cornelian heart was returned accordingly ; and, 
indeed, Miss Pigot reminded Byron that he had left 
it with her as a deposit, not a gift.] 

- [" When I was a youth, I was reckoned a good 
actor. Besides Harrow speeches, in which 1 shone, 
I enacted Penruddock, in the ' Wheel of Fortune,' 
and Tristram Fickle, in the farce of ' The Weather- 
cock,' for three nights, in some private theatricals 
at Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. The 
occasional prologue for our volunteer play was also of 
my composition. The other performers were young 
ladies and gentlemen of the neighborhood; and the 
whole went oflT with great effect upon our good- 
natured audience." — Byron's Diary, 1821. This 
prologue was written by the young poet, between 
stages, on his way from Harrowgate. On getting 
into the carriage at Chesterfield he said to his com- 
panion, " Now, Pigot, I'll spin a prologue for our 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



29 



In fond suspense this crisis ot their fate. 
No venal views our progress can retard, 
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward. 
For these, each Hero all his power displays. 
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 
Surely the last will some protection find ; 
None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 
While Youth and Beauty form the female 

shield. 
The sternest censor to the fair must yield. 
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, 
Should, after all, our best endeavors fail. 
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live. 
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, 

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU 
APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER. 

" Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death. 
But bless the hour when PiTT resigned his 

breath : 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
We give the palm where Justice points its 

due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES 
SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY. 

Oh factious viper ! whose envenomed tooth 
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 
What though our " nation's foes " lament the 

fate. 
With generous feeling, of the good and great. 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame? 
When PiTT expired in plenitude of power. 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 
Pity her dewy wings before him spread. 
For noble spirits " war not with the dead : " 
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave. 
As all his errors slumbered in the grave ; 
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state : 
When, lo 1 a Hercules in Fox appeared, 
W.io for a time the ruined fabric reared : 
He, too, is fallen, who Britain's loss supplied, 
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died ; 
Not one great people only raise his urn, 
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 
" These feehngs wide, let sense and truth 

undue, 
To give the palm where Justice points its 

due ;" 



play ;" and before they reached Mansfield he had 
completed his task, — interrupting, only once, his 
rhyming reverie, to ask the proper pronunciation of 
the French word "debut," and, on being answered 
(not, it would seem, very correctly), exclaiming, 
" Ay, that will do for rhyme to * new' " — Moore.\ 



Yet let not cankered Calumny assail, 

Or round our statesmen wind her gloomy 

veil. 
Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world 

must weep, 
Whose dear remains in honored marljle sleep ; 
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, 
Nor e'en to PiTT the patriot's palm resign ; 
Which Envy, wearing Candor's sacred mask, 
For Pitt, and PiTT alone, has dared to ask.i 



THE TEAR. 

" O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo! quater 
Felix, in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." — Gray. 

When Friendship or Love our sympathies 
move, 

When Truth in a glance should appear. 
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile. 

But the test of affection's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile. 

To mask detestation or fear ; 
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling 
eye 

Is dimmed for a time with a Tear. 

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below. 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 

Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

The man doomed to sail with the blast of the 
gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer. 
As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be 
his grave. 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath 

In Glory's romantic career; 
But he raises the foe when in batde laid low, 

And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

If with high-bounding pride he return to his 
bride. 
Renouncing the gore-crimsoned spear, 
All his toils are repaid when, embracing the 
maid. 
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth ! 2 seat of Friendship 
and Truth, 
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year. 



1 [The "illiberal impromptu" appeared in the 
Morning Post and Byron's " reply " in the Morning 
Chronicle.] 

2 Harrow, 



30 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Loth to leave thee, I mourned, for a last look 
I turned, 
But thy spire was scarce seen through a 
Tear. 

Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no 
more, 
My Mary to Love once so dear. 
In the shade of her bower I remember the 
hour 
She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possest, may she live ever blest ! 

Her name still my heart must revere : 
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was 
mine, 

And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart. 
This hope to my breast is most near : 

If again we shall meet in this rural retreat. 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear, 

When my soul wings her flight to the regions 
of night. 
And my corse shall recline on its bier, 
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes con- 
sume. 
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow the splendor of woe 
Which the children of vanity rear ; 

No fiction of fame shall blazon my name. 
All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 

October 26, 1806. 



REPLY 



TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON 
THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. 

Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's dis- 
dain, 
Why thus in despair do you fret ? 
For months you may try, yet, believe me, a 
sigh 
Will never obtain a coquette. 

Would you teach her to love ? for a time seem 
to rove ; 

At first she may frown in a pet ; 
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile. 

And then you may kiss your coquette. 

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs, 
They think all our homage a debt : 

Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect. 
And humbles the proudest coquette. 

Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain, 
And seem her hauteur to regret; 

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny 
That yours is the rosy coquette. 



If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride. 

This whimsical virgin forget ; 
Some other admire, who will melt with your 
fire. 

And laugh at the little coquette. 

For me, I adore some twenty or more, 
And love them most dearly ; but yet. 

Though my heart they enthrall, I'd abandon 
them all. 
Did they act like your blooming coquette. 

No longer repine, adopt this design, 
And break through her slight-woven net ; 

Away with despair, no longer forbear 
To fly from the captious coquette. 

Then quit her, my friend ! your bosom defend, 

Ere quite with her snares you're beset : 
Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed 
by the smart. 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 27, 1806. 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 

Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did 
offend. 
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er; 
From friendship I strove your pangs to re- 
move, 
But I swear I will do so no more. 

Since your beautiful maid your flame has 
repaid. 

No more I your folly regret; 
She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine 

Of this quickly reformed coquette. 

Yet still, I must own, I should never have 
known 

From your verses, what else she deserved ; 
Your pain seemed so great, I pitied your fate 

As your fair was so devilish reserved. 

Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical 
miss 
Can such wonderful transports produce ; 
Since the "world you forget, when your lips 
once have met," 
My counsel will get but abuse. 

You say, when " I rove, I know nothing of 
love ; " 
'Tis true, I am given to range : 
If I rightly remember, I've loved a good 
number. 
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 

I will not advance, by the rules of romance, 

To humor a whimsical fair ; 
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't 
affright. 

Or drive me to dreadful despair. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



31 



While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall 
reform, 

To mix in the F^latonists' school ; 
Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure. 

Thy mistress would think me a fool. 

And if I should shun every woman for one, 
Whose image must fill my whole breast — 

Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her — 
What an insult 'twould be to the rest ! 

Now, Strephon, good bye ; I cannot deny 
Your passion appears most absurd ; 

Such love as you plead is pure love indeed. 
For it only consists in the word. 



TO ELIZA. 1 

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 
Who to woman deny the soul's future exist- 
ence; 
■^uld they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their 
defect, 
And this doctrine would meet with a general 
resistance. 

Had their prophet possessed half an atom of 
sense, 
He ne'er would have women from paradise 
driven ; 
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, 
With women alone he had peopled his 
heaven. 

Yet still, to increase your calamities more, 
Not content with depriving your bodies of 
spirit, 
He allots one poor husband to share amongst 
four ! — 
With souls you'd dispense ; but this last, 
who could bear it ? 

His religion to please neither party is made ; 
On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most 
uncivil ; 
Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been 
said, 
" Though women are angels, yet wedlock's 
the devil." 



LACHIN Y GAIR.2 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake 
reposes. 



1 [Miss Elizabeth Pigot, of Southwell, to whom 
several of Byron's earliest letters were addressed.] 

2 Lachin y Gai'r, or, as it is pronounced in the 
Erse, Lock na Garr, towers proudly preeminent in 
the Northern Highlands near Invercauld. One of 



Though still they are sacred to freedom and 
love ; 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 
Round their white summits though elements 
war; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flow- 
ing fountains, 
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy 
wandered ; 
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the 
plaid ; 3 
On chieftains long perished my memory pon- 
dered. 
As daily I strode through the pine-covered 
glade : 
I sought not my home till the day's dying 
glory 
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar 
star; 
For fancy was cheered by traditional story. 
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na 
Garr. 

" Shades of the dead! have I not heard your 
voices 
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the 
gale ? " 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices. 
And rides on the wind, o'er his own High- 
land vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist 
gathers, 
Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my 
fathers ; 
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch 
na Garr. 

" Ill-starred, 4 though brave, did no visions 
foreboding 
Tell you that fate had forsaken your 
cause ? " 



our modern tourists mentions it as the highest 
mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it 
may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and 
picturesque amongst our " Caledonian Alps." Its 
appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the 
seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent 
some of the early part of my life, the recollection of 
which has given birth to these stanzas. 

3 This word is erroneously pronounced //<3^.- the 
proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is 
shown by the orthography. 

■• I allude here to my maternal ancestors, " the 
Go7-Jons,^' many of whom fought for the unfortu- 
nate Prince Charles, better known by the name of 
the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by 
blood, as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. 
George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the 
Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the 
First of Scotland. By her he left four sons: the 
third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honor to 
claim as one of my progenitors. 



32 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden.i 

Victory crowned not your fall with applause : 
Still were you happy in death's earthy slum- 
ber, 
You rest with your clan in the caves of 
Braemar ; - 
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud 
number, 
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na 
Garr. 

Years have rolled on. Loch na Garr, since I 
left you. 
Years must elapse ere I tread you again : 
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 
To one who has roved on the mountains 
afar: 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch 
na Garr ! 3 



TO ROMANCE. 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance, 

Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 



1 Whether any perished in the battle of CuUoden, 
I am not certain ; but, as many fell in the insurrec- 
tion, 1 have used the name of the principal action, 
" pars pro toto." 

2 A tract of the Highlands so called. There is 
also a castle of Braemar. 

3 [In the " Island," a poem written a year or two 
before Byron's death, are these lines: — 

" He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue 
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
Long have I roamed through lands which are not 

mine. 
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 
Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep : 
But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall; 
The infant rapture still survived the boy. 
And Loch na Garr with Ida looked o'er Troy, 
Mixed Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, 
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount." 
" When very young," (he adds in a note,) 
" about eight years of age, after an attack of the scar- 
let fever at Aberdeen, I was removed, by medical ad- 
vice, into the Highlands, and from this period I date 
my love of mountainous countries. I can never for- 
get the effect, a few years afterwards, in England, 
of the only thing I had long seen, even in miniature, 
of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. After I re- 
turned to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every 
afternoon, at sunset, with a sensation which I can- 
not describe."] 



At length, in spells no longer bound, 
I break the fetters of my youth ; 

No more I tread thy mystic round. 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul. 
Where every .nymph a goddess seems, 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll-, 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue ; 
When virgins seem no longer vain. 

And even woman's smiles are true. 

And must we own thee but a name. 

And from thy hall of clouds descend ? 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

A Pylades^ in every friend? 
But leave at once thy realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairy elves ; 
Confess that woman's false as fair, 

And friends have feeling for — themselves? 

With shame I own I've felt thy sway, 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
No more thy precepts I obey, 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, 

And think that eye to truth was dear ; 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear ! 

Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 

Far from thy motley court I fly, 
Where Affectation holds her seat. 

And sickly Sensibility ; 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any pangs excepting thine ; 
Who turns aside from real woe. 

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crowned, arrayed in weeds, 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
And call thy sylvan female choir. 

To mourn a swain for ever gone, 
Who once could glow with equal fire. 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 

On all occasions swiftly flow ; 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 

With fancied flames and phrensy glow ; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train ? 



* It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was 
the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of 
those friendships which, with those of Achilles and 
Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, 
have been handed down to posterity as remarkable 
instances of attachments, which in all probability 
never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, 
or the page of an historian, or modern novelist, 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



IZ 



An infant bard at least may claim 
From you a sympathetic strain. 

Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view, 

Where unlamcnted you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather ; 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas ! must perish altogether. 



ANSWER 

TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A 
FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING 
THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS 
RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN. 

" But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 

Should condemn me for printing a second edition; 

If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse, 

May I venture to give her a smack of my muse? " 

New Bath Guide. 

Candor compels me, Becher ! i to commend 
The verse which blends the censor with the 

friend. 
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 
For this wild error which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways de- 
part : 
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart ? 
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control. 
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing 

mind, 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace. 
Outstripped and vanquished in the mental 

chase. 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of 

love : 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing 

power 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng. 
Whose labored lines in chilling numbers flow, 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know 1 

1 [The Rev. John Becher, prebendary of South- 
well, the author of several philanthropic plans for 
the amelioration of the condition of the poor. In 
this gentleman the youthful poet found not only an 
honest and judicious critic, but a sincere friend. To 
his care the superintendence of the second edition of 
" Hours of Idleness," durinc; its progress through a 
coimtry press, was intrusted, and pt his sucee tion 
several corrections and omissions were made] i 



The artless Helicon I boast is youth ; — 

My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple truth. 

Far be 't from me the " virgin's mind " to 

"taint:" 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile. 
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
Will ne'er be "tainted " by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment her bosom with unholy fires. 
No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had 

read. 
For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true. 
Will spare the childish \'erse, and not destroy 
The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud : 
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 

November 26, 1806. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

" It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll 
before me with all their deeds." — Ossian. 

Newstead ! fast-falling, once-resplendent 
dome! 
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S 2 
pride ! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloistered 
tomb, 
Whosepensive shades aroundthyruins glide. 

Hail to thy pile ! more honored in thy fall 
Than modern mansions in their pillared 
state ; 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall. 
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 

No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord. 
In grim array the crimson cross 3 demand; 

Or gay assemble round the festive board 
Their chiefs retainers, an immortal band : 

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
Retrace their progress through the lapse of 
time. 

Marking each ardent youth, ordained to die, 
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the 
chief; 
His feudal realm in other regions lay : 



2 Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the rr.ur- 
der of Thomas a Berkct. 

3 The red cross was the bailee of the crusaders. 



34 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 
Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Yes ! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could 
view ; 

Or blood-stained guilt repenting solace found, 
Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 
Where Sherwood's outlaws t)nce were wont 
to prowl, 
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes. 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting 
cowl. 

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew. 
The humid pall of life-extinguished clay. 

In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew. 
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 

Where now the bats their wavering xings 
extend 
Soon as the gloaming i spreads her waning 
shade. 
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
Or matin orisons to Mary^ paid. 

Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
Religion's charter their protecting shield 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

One holy Henry reared the gothic walls, 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 

Another HENRY 3 the kind gift recalls, 

And bids devotion's hallowed echoes cease. 

Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer ; 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode. 
To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. 

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain. 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 

The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. 
High crested banners wave thy walls within. 

Of changing sentinels the distant hum. 

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnished 
arms. 

The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum. 
Unite in concert with increased alarms. 

An abbey once, a regal fortress ^ now, 
Encircled by insulting rebel powers, 



1 As " gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, 
is far more poetical, and has been recommended by 
many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. 
Moore in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to 
use it on account of its harmony. 

- The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 

3 At tlie dissolution of the monasteries, Henry 
VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 

4 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the 
war between Charles I. and his parliament. 



War's dread machines o'erhang thy threaten- 
ing brow. 
And dart destruction in sulphureous show- 
ers. 

Ah vain deferxce ! the hostile traitor's siege. 
Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes 
the brave ; 

His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege. 
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 

Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 

The blood of traitors smears the purple 
plain ; 
Unconquered still, his falchion there he wields. 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 

Still in that hour the warrior wished to strew 
Self-gathered laurels on a self-sought grave ; 

But Charles' protecting genius hither flew. 
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, 
to save. 

Trembling, she snatched him 5 from th' une- 
qual strife, 
In other fields the torrent to repel ; 
For nobler combats, here, reserved his life. 
To lead the band where godlike Falk- 
land 6 fell. 

From thee, poor pile 1 to lawless plunder 
given, 
While dying groans their painful requiem 
sound. 
Far different incense now ascends to heaven, 
Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 

O'er mingling man, and horse commixed with 
horse. 
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds 
o'erspread. 
Ransacked, resign perforce their mortal 
mould : 
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead. 
Raked from repose in search for buried 
gold. 

Hushed is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre. 
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in 
death ; 
No more he strikes the quivering chords with 
fire, 
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 



c Lord Byron, and his brother Sir William, held 
high commands in the royal army. The former was 
general in chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, 
and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards 
the unhappy James II.; the latter had a principal 
share in many actions. 

« Lucius Gary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most 
accomplished man of his age, was killed at the '*^t- 



I/OCKS OF IDLENESS. 



35 



At length the sated murderers, gorged with 
prey, 

Retire; the clamor of the fight is o'er; 
Silence again resumes her awful sway, 

And sable Horror guards the massy door. 

Here Desolation holds her dreary court : 
What satellites declare her dismal reign ! 

Shrieking their dirge, ill-omened birds resort, 
To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel . 

The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies ; 
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell. 

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

With storms she welcomes his expiring 
groans ; 
Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his laboring 
breath ; 
Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, 
Loathing the offering of so dark a death.i 

The legal ruler 2 now resumes the helm. 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of 
state ; 
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful 
realm. 
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied 
hate. 

The gloomy tenants, Newstead ! of thy cells, 
Howling, resign their violated nest ; 

Again the master on his tenure dwells. 

Enjoyed, from absence, with enraptured zest. 

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale. 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to 
mourn. 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float. 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the tree ; 

And hark 1 the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the 
breeze. 

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys 
shake : 
What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the 
chase ! 
The dying stag seeks refuge in the Lake ; 
Exulting shouts announce the finished race. 



tie of Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord 
Byron's regiment of cavahy. 

^ This is an historical fact. A violent tempest 
occurred immediately subsequent to the death or 
interment of Cromwell, which occasioned many dis- 
putes between his partisans and the cavaliers : both 
interpreted the circumstance into divine inter- 
position; but whether as approbation or condemna- 
tion, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. 
I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the 
subject of my poem. 

2 Charles IL 



Ah happy days ! too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers 
knew : 
No splendid vices glittered to allure ; 
Their joys were many, as their cares were 
few. 

From these descending, sons to sires suc- 
ceed ; 
Time steals along, and Death uprears his 
dart; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed. 
Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is 
thine ! 
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his 
sway. 

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn 
towers ; 
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages 
sleep ; 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry show- 
ers ; 
These, these he views, and views them but 
to weep. 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret : 
Cherished affection only bids them flow. 

Pride, hope, and love, forbid him to forget, 
But warm his bosom with impassioned 
glow. 

Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 
Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great; 

Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs. 
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of 
fate.3 

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine. 
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 

Hours splendid as the past may' still be 
thine. 
And bless thy future as thv former day.* 



•^ [" Come what may," wrote Byron to liis mother, 
in March, 1809, " Newstead and I stand or fall to- 
gether. I have now lived on the spot ; I have fixed 
my heart upon it; and no pressure, present or future, 
shall induce me to barter the last vestige of our in- 
heritance. I have that pride within me which will 
enable me to support difficulties. I can endure pri- 
vations; but could I obtain, in exchange for New- 
stead Abbey, the first fortune in the country, I 
would reject the proposition. Set your mind at ease 
on that score; I feel like a man of honor, and I will 
not sell Newstead."] 

* [Those who turn from this Elegy to the stanzas 
on Newstead Abbey, in the thirteenth canto of 
Don Juan, cannot fail to remark how frequently the 
thoughts in the two pieces are the same; or to be 
interested, in comparing the juvenile sketch with 
the bold touches and mellow coloring of the master's 
picture.] 



36 



IIOUJ^S OF IDLENESS. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS.i 

" I cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most dear to me." 

When slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the 

veins ; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy- 
wing. 
And flies with every changing gale of spring; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe, 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the 

blow. 
With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
While Hope retires appalled, and clings to 

hfe. 
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious 

hour. 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power. 
Calls back the vanished days to rapture given. 
When love was bliss, and Beauty formed our 

heaven ; 
Or, dear to youth, portrays eacli childish scene, 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have 

been. 
As when through clouds that pour tb.e summer 

storm 
The orb of day unveils his distant form. 
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless 

gleams. 
The sun of memory, glowing through my 

dreams. 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze. 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
The past confounding with the present day. 



^ [These verses were composed while Bj^ron was 
suffering under severe illness and depression of 
spirits. " I was laid," he say=, " on my back, 
when that schoolboy thing was w't'cn, or rather 
dictated — expecting to rise no mo'-c, my physician 
having taken his sixteenth fee." In the private 
volume the poem opened with the following lines: — 
" Hence! thou unvarying song of varied loves, 
Which youth commends, maturcr age reproves; 
Which every rhyming bard repeats by rote, 
By thousands echoed to the self-same note! 
Tired of the dull, unceasing, copious stiain. 
My soul is panting to be free again. 
Farewell ! ye nymphs propitious to my verse, 
Some other Damon will your charms rehearse; 
Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss. 
Or dwell in rapture on your nectared kiss. 
Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight, 
No more entrance my senses in dcll,;ht ; 
Those bosoms, formed of animated snow, 
Alike are tasteless, and imfeeling now. 
These to some happier lover 1 resign — 
The memory of those joys aloac is miue. 



Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlocked for and unsought ; 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields : 
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 
To which I long have bade a last adieu! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes; 
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams ; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fame the source ; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
These with a thousand visions now unite. 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching 

sight. 
Ida! blest spot, where Science holds her 

reign. 
How joyous once I joined thy youthful train ! 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire. 
Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; 
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game. 
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the 

same; 
Through winding paths along the glade, I 

trace 
The social smile of every welcome face ; 
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe, 
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe. 
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship 

past : — 
I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my 

breast. 
To love a stranger, friendship made me 

blest ; — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth. 
When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign. 
And check each impulse with prudential rein ; 
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes; 
No varnished tales the lips of youth repeat. 
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by 

deceit. 



Censure no more shall brand my humble name, 
The child of passion and the fool of fame. 
Weary of love, of life, devoured with spleen, 
I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen. 
World! I renounce thee! all my hope's o'ercast: 
One sigh I give thee, but that sigh's the last. 
Friends, foes, and females, now alike aditu! 
Would I could add, remembrance of you too! 
Yet though the future dark and cheerless gleams. 
The curse of memory, hovering in my dreams, 
Depicts with glowing pencil all those years. 
Ere yet my cup, empoisoned, flowed with tears; 
Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway, 
The past confounding with the present day. 

" Alas ! in vain I check the maddening thought; 
It still recurs, unlooked for and unsought: 
My soul to Fancy's," etc., etc., as at line 29.] 



HOURS OP IDLENESS. 



37 



Hypocrisy, the gift of lengtliened years, 
Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 
When now the boy is ripened into man. 
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 
Instructs his son from candor's patli to shrink, 
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; 
Still to assent, and never to deny — 
A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is 

heard. 
Would lose his opening prospects for a word? 
Although against that word his heart rebel. 
And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes hke this ! not mine the 
task 
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 
Once, and but once, she aimed a deadly blow, 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
Warned by some friendly hint, perchance, 

retired. 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 
She. hushed her young resentment, and for- 
gave ; 
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
POMPOSUS" 1 virtues are but known to few : 
I never feared the young usurper's nod. 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the 

rod. 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall, 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again. 
Soon must her early song for ever cease. 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remembered be the joyous band. 
Who hailed me chief,'^ obedient to command ; 



1 [Dr. Butler, head-master of Harrow school. 
Had Byron published another edition of these poems, 
it was his intention, instead of the four lines begin- 
ning — " Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew," 
to insert — 

** If once my muse a harsher portrait drew, 

Warm with her wrongs, and deemed the likeness 

true, 
By cooler judgment taught, her fault she owns, — 
With noble minds a fault confessed, atones."] 

2 [On the retirement of Dr. Drurj^, three candi- 
dates presented themselves for -the vacant chair, 
Messrs. Drury, Evans, and Butler. On the first 
movement to which this contest gave rise in the 
school, young Wildman was at the head of the party 
for Mark Drury, while Byron held himself aloof 
from any. Anxious, however, to have him as an 
ally, one of the Drury faction said to Wildman — 
•' Byron, I know, will not join, because he does not 
choose to act second to any one, but, by giving up 



Who joined with me in every boyish sport — 

Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 

Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's 
fro\\n, 

Or all the siibic glories of his gown ; 

Who, thus tra-^oplanted from his father's 
school — 

Unfit to govcrr,, ignorant of rule — 

Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise. 

The dear preceptor of my early days ; 

Probus,^^ the pride of science, and the 
boast, 

To lUA now, alas! for ever lost. 

With him, for years, we searched the classic 
Ptige, 

And feared the master, though we loved the 
sage : 

Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat, 

P>om learning's labor is the blest retreat. 

POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair; 

POMPOSUS governs, — but, my muse, for- 
bear : 4 

Contempt, in silence, be the pendant's lot ; 

His name and precepts be alike forgot ; 

No more his mention shall my verse de- 
grade, — 

To him my tribute is already paid. 



the leadership to him, you may at once secure him." 
This Wildman accordingly did, and Byron took the 
command. — Moore. ^ 

3 Dr Drury. This most able and excellent man 
retired from his situation in March, 1805, after hav- 
ing resided thirty-five years at Harrow; the last 
twenty as head-master; an office he held with equal 
honor to himself and advantage to the very exten- 
sive school over which he presided. Panegyric 
would here be superfluous : it would be useless to 
enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. 
A considerable contest took place between three 
rival candidates for his vacant chair: of this I can 
only say, 

Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi! 
Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis haeres. 

[Such was Byron's parting eulogy on Dr. Drury. 
It may be interesting to see by the side of it the 
Doctor's own account of his pupil, when first com- 
mitted to his care; — "I took," says the Doctor, 
" my young disciple into my study, and endeavored 
to bring him forward by inquiries as to his former 
amusements, employments, and associates, but 
with little or no effect; and I soon found that a 
wild mountain colt had been submitted to my man- 
agement. But there was mind in his eye. His 
manner and temper soon convinced mc, that he 
might be led by a silken string to a point, rather 
than by a cable; — and on that principle I acted."] 

* [To this passage, had Byron published another 
edition of Hours of Idleness, it was his intention to 
give the following turn: — 

" Another fills his magisterial chair; 
Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care; 
Oh ! may like honors crown his future name: 
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame."] 



38 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



High, through those elms, with hoary 
branches crowned. 
Fair IDA'S bower adorns the landscape round ; 
There Science, from her favored seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train. 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scattered groups each favored haunt pur- 
sue ; 
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new; 
Flushed with his rays, beneath the noontide 

sun, 
In rival bands, between the wickets run. 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force. 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their way. 
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents 

stray ; 
While yonder few search out some green re- 
treat. 
And arbors shade them from the summer 

heat : 
Others, again, a pert and lively crew. 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed 

in view. 
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, 
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 
Nor rest with this, but many -a passing fray 
Tradition treasures for a future day : 
" 'Twas here the gathered swains for ven- 
geance fought. 
And here we earned the conquest dearly 

bought ; 
Here have we fled before superior might. 
And here renewed the wild tumultuous fight." 
While thus our souls with early passions 

swell. 
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell; 
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 
And Learning beckons from her temple's 

door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall. 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 
There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's 

name 
Secures its owner's academic fame ; 
Here mingling view the names of sire and 

son — 
The one long graved, the other just begun : 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : i 
Perhaps their last memorial these alone. 
Denied in death a monumental stone, 
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
The sighing weeds tb-^^^ hide their nameless 

grave. 
And here my name, and many an early friend's. 



^ [During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet pre- 
vented the school-room from being burnt down, by 
pointing out to the boys the names of their fathers 
and grandfathers on the walls.] 



Along the wall in lengthened line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful 

race. 
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, 
Who young, obeyed their lords in silent awe, 
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice 

was law ; 
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power, 
To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; — 
Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient 

day, 
They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
" And thus our former rulers stemmed the 

tide, 
And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 
Just in this place the mouldering walls they 

scaled, 
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength 

availed ; '^ 
Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell. 
And here he faltered forth his last farewell ; 
And here one night abroad they dared to 

roam. 
While bold POMPOSUS bravely staid at 

home; " — 
W^hile thus they speak, the hour must soon 

arrive, 
When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race ! though now we meet no 

more, 
One last long look on v\hat we were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with 

you. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy 

world, 
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurled, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And atl I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish ! if chance some well-remembered 

face. 
Some old companion of my early race. 
Advanced to claim his friend w ith honest joy. 
My eyes, my heart, proclaimed me still a boy ; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups 

around, 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was 

found ; 
The smiles of beauty — (for, alas 1 I've known 
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty 

throne) — 



^ [Byron elsewfiere thus describes his usual 
course of life while at Harrow — " always cricket- 
ing, rebelling, rowing, and in all manner of mis- 
chiefs." One day, in a fit of defiance, he tore down 
all the gratings from the window of the hall; and 
when called upon by Dr. Butler to say why he had 
committed this outrage, coolly answered, " because 
they darkened the room."] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



39 



The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were 

dear, 
Could hardly charm me, when that friend 

was near ; 
My thoughts bewildered in the fond surprise. 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes; 
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along, 
1 saw and joined again the joyous throng; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove. 
And friendship's feelings triumphed over 

love.i 

Yet, why should I alone with such delight, 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Endeared to all in childhood's vei^y name ? 
Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here. 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly 

dear, 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must 

roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
I'hose hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care. 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own ? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek ? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise. 
To no fond bosom linked by kindred ties ! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream, 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest, 



^ [This description of what the young poet felt in 
1806, on encountering any of his former schoolfel- 
lows, falls far short of the page in which he records 
an accidental meeting with Lord Clare, on the road 
between Imola and Bologna in 1821. " This meet- 
ing," he says, " annihilated for a moment all the 
years between the present time and the days of 
Harrow. It was a new and inexplicable feeling, 
like rising from the grave, to me. Clare too was 
much agitated — more in appearance than was my- 
self ; for I could feel his heart beat to his fingers' 
ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my own 
which made me think so. We were but five min- 
utes together, and on the public road; but I hardly 
recollect an hour of my existence which could be 
weighed against them." — We may also quote the 
following interesting sentences of Madame Guic- 
cioli: — "In 1822 (says she), a few days before 
leaving Pisa, we were one evening seated in the gar- 
den of the Palazzo Lanfranchi. At this moment a 
servant announced Mr. Hobhouse. The slight 
shade of melancholy diffused over Lord Byron's 
face, gave instant place to the liveliest joy; but it 
was so great that it almost deprived him of strength. 
A fearful paleness came over his cheeks, and his 
eyes were filled with tears as he embraced his friend : 
his emotion was so great that he was forced to sit 
down."] 



The voice of love will miumur in my rest : 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice; 
I hear again, — but, ah ! no f)rother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths en- 
twine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
What then remains ? in solitude to groan. 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand 
And none more dear than IDA'S social band. 

Alonzo!2 best and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no 

praise ; 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth. 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name. 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 
Oft have we drained the font of ancient lore ; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the 

more. 
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was 

done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were 

one : 
Together we impelled the flying ball ; 
Together waited in our tutor's hall ; 
Together joined in cricket's manly toil. 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or, plunging from the green declining shore, 
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore ; 
In every element, unchanged, the same. 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy 1 
Davus,3 the harbinger of childish joy; 
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's path though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember, in the factious strife, 
The rustic's musket aimed against my life : * 
High poised in air the massy weapon hung. 



- [The Hon. John Wingfield, cf the Coldstream 
Guards. He died of a fever, in his twentieth j'ear, 
at Coimbra, May 14th, 181 1. — "Of all human 
beings," says Byron, '' I was, perhaps, at one lime, 
the most attached to poor Wingfield. I had known 
him the better half of his life, and the happiest part 
of mine."] 

3 [The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall. B. A., of 
Christ Church, Oxford; who died Dec. 8, 1812, at 
Hall's Place, Kent, aged twenty-four.] 

* [The " factious strife " was brought on by the 
breaking up of school, and the dismissal of some 



40 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 
Fought on, unconscious of th'impendingblow ; 
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 
Disarmed and baffled by your conquering 

hand, 
The grovelling savage rolled upon the sand : 
An act like this, can simple thanks repay? 
Or all the labors of a grateful lay ? 
Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed. 
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus ! 1 on me thy claims are justly great : 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
To thee alone, unrivalled, would belong 
The feeble efforts of my lengthened song.2 
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Lycus ! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
When time at length matures thy growing 

years. 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 
With honor's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair EURYALUS^ pass by unsung? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung : 
What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
That name is yet embalmed within my heart ; 



volunteers from drill, at the same hour. The butt- 
end of a musket was aimed at Byron's head, and 
would have felled him to the ground, but for the 
interposition of Tattersall. — Moore. ~\ 

1 [John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare. " I 
never," Byron says, in 1821, "hear the word 
'Clare,' without a beating of the heart even noiv ; 
and I write it with the feelings of 1803-4-5, "^^ infin- 
itum." In 1822 he said of Clare, " I have always 
loved him better than any male thing in the world."] 

2 [In the private volume, the following lines con- 
clude this character; — 

" For ever to possess a friend in thee. 

Was bliss unhoped, though not unsought by me. 
Thy softer soul was formed for love alone, 
To ruder passions and to hate imknown; 
Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form, 
Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm. 
That face, an index of celestial worth, 
Proclaimed a heart abstracted from the earth. 
Oft, when depressed with sad foreboding gloom, 
I sat reclined upon our favorite tomb, 
I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow 
With kind compassion for thy comrade's woe; 
Or when less mournful subjects formed our themes, 
We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes. 
Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone, 
Whatever wish was mine must be thine own."] 

3 George-John, fifth Earl Delawarr; — 

" Harrow, October 25, 1804. — I am happy enough 
and comfortable here. My friends are not numerous, 
but select. Among the principal, I rank Lord Del- 



Yet at the mention does that heart rebound. 
And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
W^e once were friends, — FU think we are so 

Still.4 

A form unmatched in nature's partial mould, 

A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 

Yet not the senate's tlmnder thou shalt wield. 

Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 

To minds of ruder texture these be given — 

Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 

Haply, in polished courts might be thy seat, 

But that thy tongue could never forge deceit : 

The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 

The flow of compliment, the slippery wile. 

Would make that breast with indignation 

burn. 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee 

spurn. 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends 

adore ; — 
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, but nearest, of the social band. 
See honest, open, generous Cleon^ stand ; 
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing 

scene. 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
On the same day our studious race begun. 
On the same day our studious race was run ; 
Thus side by side we passed our first career, 
Thus side by side we strove for many a year; 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 
We neither conquered in the classic strife : 



awarr, who is very amiable, and my particular 
friend." "Nov. 2, 1804. — Lord Delawarr is con- 
siderably younger than me, but the most good-tem- 
pered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. To 
all which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes 
of women) of being remarkably handsome. Dela- 
warr and myself are, in a manner, connected; for 
one of my forefathers, in Charles the First's time, 
married into their family." — Byron's Letters.^ 

^ ["You will be astonished to hear I have lately 
written to Delawarr, for the purpose of explaining 
(as far as possible, without involving some old 
friends of mine in the business) , the cause of my 
behavior to hi'm during my last residence at Harrow, 
which you will recollect was rather en cavalier. 
Since that period I have discovered he was treated 
with injustice, both by those who misrepresented 
his conduct, and by me in consequence of their sug- 
gestions. I have, therefore, made all the reparation 
in my power, by apologizing for my mistake, though 
with very faint hopes of success. However, I have 
eased my own conscience by the atonement, which 
is humiliating enough to one of my disposition; yet 
I could not have slept satisfied with the reflection 
of having, even unintentionally, injured any indi- 
vidual. I have done all that could be done to repair 
the injury." — Byron's Letter to Lord Clare, 
1807.] 
» [Edward Nod Long, Esq.] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



41 



As speakers ^ each supports an equal name, 
And crowds allow to both a partial fame : 
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, 
Though Cleon's candor would the palm divide. 
Yet candor's self compels me now to own, 
Justice awards it to my friend alone. 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear. 
Remembrance hails you with her warmest 

tear ! 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn. 
To trace the hours which never can return ; 
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell. 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind. 
As infant laurels round my head were twined, 
When Probus* praise repaid my lyric song, 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng ; 
Orwhen my first harangue received applause,^ 
His sage instruction the primeval cause. 
What gratitude to him my soul possest. 
While hope of dawning honors filled my 

breast ! 
For all my humble fame, to him alone 
The praise is due, who made that fame my 

own. 3 



1 This alludes to the public speeches delivered at 
the school where the author was educated. 

2 [" I remember that my first declamation aston- 
ished Dr. Drury into some unwonted (for he was 
economical of such) and sudden compliments, be- 
fore the declaimers at our first rehearsal." — Byrotis 
Diary.] 

[" I certainly was much pleased with Lord By- 
ron's attitude, gesture, and delivery, as well as with 
his composition. All who spoke on that day ad- 
hered, as usual, to the letter of their composition, 
as in the earlier part of his delivery did Lord Byron. 
But, to my surprise, he suddenly diverged from the 
written composition, with a boldness and rapidity 
sufficient to alarm me, lest he should fail in memory 
as to the conclusion. There was no failure; — he 
came round to the close of his composition without 
discovering any impediment and irregularity on the 
whole. I questioned him, why he had altered his 
declamation? He declared he had made no altera- 
tion, and did not know, in speaking, that he had 
deviated from it one letter. I believed him, and 
from a knowledge of his temperament am con- 
vinced, that, fully impressed with the sense and 
substance of the subject, he was hurried on to ex- 
pressions and colorings more striking than what his 
pen had expressed." — Dr. Drury.] 

3 [In the private volume the poem concludes 
thus: — 

" When, yet a novice in the mimic art, 
I feigned the transports of a vengeful heart — . 
When as the Royal Slave I trod Ihe stage, 
To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage — 
The praise of Probus made me feel more proud 
Than all the plaudits of the listening crowd. 
" Ah! vain endeavor in this childish strain 
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain ! 
What can avail this fruitless loss of time, 
To measure sorrow in a jingling rhyme! 



Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, 
These young effusions of my early days. 
To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 
The song might perish, but the theme might 

live. 
Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 
His honored name requires no vain display : 
By every son of grateful Ida blest. 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
A fame beyond the glories of the proud, 
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida ! not yet exhausted is the theme. 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain ! 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain ! 



No social solace from a friend is near, 
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear. 
I seek not joy in woman's sparkling eye: 
The smiles of beauty cannot check the sigh. 
Adieu, thou world! thy pleasure's still a dream, 
Thy virtue but a visionary theme; 
Thy years of vice on years of folly roll, 
Till grinning death assigns the destined goal, 
Where all are hastening to the dread abode, 
To meet the judgment of a righteous God; 
Mixed in the concourse of the thoughtless throng, 
A mourner midst of mirth, I glide along; 
A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing, 
Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting; 
But not that mental sting which stabs within, 
The dark avenger of unpunished sin; 
The silent shaft which goads the guilty wretch 
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch: 
Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies — 
His mind the rack from which he ne'er can rise. 
For me, whate'er my folly, or mjr fear, 
One cheerful comfort still is cherished here : 
No dread internal haunts my hours of rest, 
No dreams of injured innocence infest; * 
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft. 
Conscience, mjr last but welcome guest is left. 
Slander's empoisoned breath may blast my name, 
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame; 
Deceit may chill the current of my blood, 
And freeze affection's warm impassioned flood; 
Presaging horror darken every sense; — 
Even here will conscience be my best defence. 
My bosom feeds no ' worm which ne'er can die: ' f 
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by. 
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile, 
My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile: 
No more with former bliss my heart is glad; 
Hope yields to anguish, and my soul is sad; 
From fond regret no future joy can save; 
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave."] 



* [" I am not a Joseph," said Byron, in i8ai, 
" nor a Scipio; but I can safely affirm, that I never 
in my life seduced any woman." 

t [" We know enough even of Lord Byron's pri- 
vate history to give our warrant that, though his 
youth may have shared somewhat too largely in the 
indiscretions of those left too early masters of their 
own actions and fortunes, falsehood and malice alone 
can impute to him any real cause for hopeless re- 
morse, or gloomy melancholy." — Sir Walter 
Scott.] 



42 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 
This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 
To me a silent and a sweet employ. 
While future hope and fear alike unknown, 
I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine. 
And chase the phantom of what once was mine. 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ; — 
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow, 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along. 
The feeble veterans of gome former throng, 
Whose friends, like autufnn leaves by tempests 

whirled. 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 
WhileCare as yet withheld her venomed tooth ; 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
Say can ambition's fevered dream bestow 
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe ? 
Can treasures, hoarded forsome thankless son. 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won. 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys) 
Recall one scene so much beloved to view, 
As those where Youth her garland twined for 

you ? 
Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age 
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page ; 
Peruse the record of your days on earth. 
Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 
Still lingering pause above each chequered 

leaf, 
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle 

threw, 
Or weeping "Virtue sighed a faint adieu ; 
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn. 
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn ; 
When Friendship bowed before the shrine of 

truth, 
And Love, without his pinion.i smiled on 

youth. 



ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM 
ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT."^ 

Montgomery ! true, the commcn let 
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 

Yet some shall never be forgot — 
Some shall exist beyond the grave. 



^ " L'Atnitid est I'Amour sans ailes," is a French 
proverb. 

-Written by James Montgomery, author of 
" The Wanderer in Switzerland," etc. 



" Unknown the region of his birth," 
The hero 3 rolls the tide of war; 

Yet not unknown his martial worth, 
Which glares a meteor from afar. 

His joy or grief, his weal or woe, 

Perchance may. 'scape the page of fame ; 

Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 

The patriot's and the poet's frame 
Must share the common tomb of all : 

Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
That will arise, though empires fall. 

The lustre of a beauty's eye 
Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 

The fair, the brave, the good must die, 
And sink the yawning grave beneath. 

Once more the speaking eye revives. 
Still beaming through the lover's strain; 

For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
She died, but ne'er will die again. 

The rolling seasons pass away. 

And Time, untiring, waves his wing ; 

Whilst honor's laurels ne'er decay. 
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 

All, all must sleep in grim repose, 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, with friends and foes, 

Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 

The mouldering marble lasts its day, 
Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 

To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey. 
The wrecks of pillared pride remain. 

What, though the sculpture be destroyed. 
From dark oblivion meant to guard ; 

A bright renown shall be enjoyed 
By those whose virtues claim reward. 

Then do not say the common lot 
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave ; 

Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 

1806. 



TO A LADY 

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE 
VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER 
TRESSES. 

This Band, which bound thy yellow hair. 
Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love ; 

It claims my warmest, dearest care, 
Like relics left of saints above. 



" No pnrttcular hero is here alluded to. The 
exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black 
Prince, and, in more modern times the fam« of 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



43 



Oh ! I will wear it next my heart ; 

'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee ; 
From me again 'twill ne'er depart, 

But mingle in the grave with me. 

Tlie dew I gather from thy lip 

Is not so dear to n^e as this ; 
That I but for a moment sip, 

And banquet on a transient bliss : 

This will recall each youthful scene. 
E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 

The leaves of Love will still be green 
When Memory bids them bud again. 

Oh ! little lock of golden hue, 

In gently waving ringlet curled. 
By the dear head on which you grew, 

I would not lose you for a world. 

Not though a thousand more adorn 
The polished brow where once you shone. 

Like ravs which gild a cloudless morn, 
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 

1806. 



REMEMBRANCE. 

'TiS done ! — I saw it in my dreams : 

No more with Hope the future beams ; 
My days of happiness are few : 

Chilfed by misfortune's wintry blast. 

My dawn of life is overcast, 

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu 1 — 
Would I could add Remembrance too 



LINES 



ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON 
HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX 
MORE WITH SOCIETY. 

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with man- 
kind ; — 
I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
But retirement 'accords with the tone of my 
mind : 
I will not descend to a world I despise. 

Did the senate or camp my exertions require. 
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go 
forth ; 
When infancy's years of probation expire. 
Perchance I may strive to distinguish my 
birth. 

The fire in the cavern of Etna concealed, 
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; — 



Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, 
Charles of Sweden, etc., are familiar to every his- 
torical reader, but the exact places of their birth are 
known to a very small proportion of their admirers. 



At length, in a volume terrific revealed. 

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can 
repress. 

Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 
Bids me live but to hope for posterity's 
praise. 
Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of 
flame, 
With him I would wish to expire in the 
blaze. 

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death. 
What censure, what danger, what woe 
would I brave ! 
Their lives did not end when they yielded 
their breath ; 
Their glory illumines the gloom of their 
grave. 

Yet whv should I mingle in Fashion's full 
herd ? 
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her 
rules ? 
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the ab- 
surd ? 
Why search for delight in the friendship of 
fools ? 

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of 

love ; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe ; 

My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; 

I have found that a friend may profess, yet 

deceive. 

To me what is wealth ? it may pass in an 
hour. 
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should 
frown ; 
To me what is title ? — the phantom of power ; 
To me what is fashion ? — I seek but re- 
nown. 

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul ; 

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth : 
Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 

Why waste upon folly the days of my youth ? 

1806. 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND 
ORLA. 

an imitation of MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.l 

Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells 
on their remembrance through the mist of 
time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny 
hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trem- 
bling hand. " Not thus feebly did I raise the 
steel before my fathers ! " Past is the race of 



1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, 
though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is 



44 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



heroes! But their fame rises on the harp; 
their souls ride on the wings of the wind ; 
they hear the sound through the sighs of the 
storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds ! 
Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his 
narrow house. He looks down from eddying 
tempests : he rolls his form in the whirlwind, 
and hovers on the blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war 
to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked 
in blood. Lochlin's sons had tied before his 
angry spear ; but mild was the eye of Calmar ; 
soft was the flow of his yellow locks : they 
streamed like the meteor of the night. No 
maid was the sigh of his soul : his thoughts 
were given to friendship, — to dark-haired 
Orla, destroyer of heroes ! Equal were their 
swords in battle ; but fierce was the pride of 
Orla:^ — ^ gentle alone to Calmar. Together 
they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the 
blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his 
might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. 
Their ships cover the ocean. Their hosts 
throng on the green hills. They come to the 
aid of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the 
armies, but the blazing oaks gleam through 
the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept : their 
dreams were of blood. They lift the spear 
in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host 
of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. 
Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were 
in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs : they 
stood around. The king was in the midst. 
Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm 
of the king. Age withered not his powers. 
" Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to-morrow 
we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the 
shield of Erin ? He rests in the halls of 
Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who 
will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and 
call the chief to arms ? The path is by the 
swords of foes ; but many are my heroes. 
They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye 
chiefs ! Who will arise ? " 

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," 
said dark-haired Orla, " and mine alone. 
What is death to me ? I love the sleep of 
the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons 
of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne 
Cuthullin. If 1 fall, raise the song of bards; 
and lay me by the stream of Lubar." — "And 
shalt thou fall alone ? " said fair-haired Cal- 
mar. " Wilt thou leave thy friend afar ? 
Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in 
fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the 
spear ? No, Orla ! ours has been the chase 



taken from " Nisus and Euryalus," of which epi- 
sode a translation is already given in the present 
volume. 



of the roebuck, and the feast of shells ; ours 
be the path of danger : ours has been the cave 
of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on the 
banks of Lubar." " Calmar," said the chief of 
Oithona, " why should thy yellow locks be dark- 
ened in thedust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My 
father dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in 
his boy ; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the 
feast for her son in Morven. She listens to 
the steps of the hunter on the heath, and 
thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not 
say, ' Calmar has fallen by the steel of Loch- 
lin : he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of 
the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the 
azure eye of Mora ? Why should her voice 
curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar ? Live, 
Calmar ! Live to raise my stone of moss ; 
live to revenge me in the blood of Lochhn. 
join the song of bards above my grave. 
Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from 
the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on 
the notes of praise." " Orla," said the son of 
Mora, " could I raise the song of death to my 
friend ? Could I give his fame to the winds ? 
No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint 
and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla ! 
our souls shall hear the song together. One 
cloud shall be ours on high : the bards will 
mingle the names of Orla and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their 
steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying 
blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. 
The northern star points the path to Tura. 
Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. 
Here the troops are mixed : they frown in 
sleep; their shields beneath their heads. 
Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. 
The fires are faint ; their embers fail in smoke. 
All is hushed ; but the gale sighs on the rocks 
above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the 
slumbering band. Half the journey is past, 
when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the 
eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens 
through the shade. His spear is raised on 
high. " Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief 
of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar : "we 
are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for 
delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said 
Orla of the gloomy brow. " Mathon of Lochlin 
sleeps : seest thou his spear ? Its point is dim 
with the gore of my father. The blood of 
Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I slay 
him sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall 
feel his wound : my fame shall not soar on the 
blood of slumber. ' Rise, Mathon, rise! The 
son of Conna calls ; thy life is his ; rise to 
combat." Mathon starts from sleep ; but did 
he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs 
bound on the plain, "Fly! Calmar, fly!" 
said dark-haired Orla. " Mathon is mine, I 
shall die in joy : but Lochlin crowds around. 
Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



45 



The helm of Mathon is cleft ; his shield falls 
from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He 
rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon 
sees him fail: his wrath rises: his weapon 
glitters on the head of Oria : but a spear 
pierced his eye. His brain gushes through 
the wound, and foams on the spear of Cai- 
man As roll the waves of the Ocean on two 
mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of 
Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge 
in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, 
so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered 
crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to 
the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield ; his 
sons throng around ; the people pour along 
the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian 
stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. 
The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. 
Dreadful is the clang of death ! many are the 
widows of Lochlin ! Morven prevails in its 
strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe 
is seen ; but the sleepers are many ; grim they 
lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their 
locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks 
scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of 
a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, 
they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 
'Tis Calmar : he lies on the bosom of Orla. 
Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the 
look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; 
but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death 
unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's ; 
but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. 
" Rise," said the king, " rise, son of Mora : 
'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Cal- 
mar may yet bound on the hills of Morven." 

" Never more shall Calmar chase the deer 
of Morven with Orla," said the hero. " What 
were the chase to me alone ? Who would 
share the spoils of battle with Calmar ? Orla 
is at rest! Rough was thy ,i'ul, Orla! yet 
soft to me as the dew of morn It glared on 
others in lightning: to me a :.ilver beam of 
night. Bear my sword to blue tyed Mora; 
let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure 
from blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay 
me with my friend. Raise the song when I 
am dark! " 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four 
gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla and 
Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails 
rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our 
barks to Morven : — the bards raised the song. 

" What form rises on the roar of clouds ? 
Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams 
of tempests ? His voice rolls on the thunder. 
'Tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He 
was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, 
Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, 
Calmar ! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed 



Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It 
hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin 
shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Cal- 
mar ! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. 
Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. 
Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread 
them on the arch of the rainbow ; and smile 
through the tears of the storm." 1 



L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. 
[written DECEMBER, 1806.] 

Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Days of delight may still be mine ; 

Affection is not. dead. 
In tracing back the years of vouth. 
One firm record, one lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings; 
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat. 
Where first my heart responsive beat, — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Through few, but deeply chequered year3, 

What moments have been mine! 
Now half obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now bright in rays divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast. 
My soul, enraptured with the past, 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship ! that thought is all thine own, 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale, 
Unheeded heaves a simple grave. 

Which tells the common tale ; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings ; 
But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
My silent tears too plainly prove 

" Friendship is Love without his wings! " 

Oh Love ! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, 

But these are now decayed ; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind, 



1 I fear Laing's late edition has completely over- 
thrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might 
prove the translation of a series of poems complete 
in themselves; but, while the imposture is discov- 
ered, the merit of the work remains undisputeii, 
though not without faults — particularly, in some 
parts, turgid and bombastic diction. — The present 
humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers 
of the original as an attempt, however inferior, 
whigh evinces an attachment to their favorite author, 



46 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away ! delusive power. 
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; 

Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 

Seat of my youth ! i thy distant spire 

Recalls each scene of joy; 
My bosom glows with former fire, — 

in mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill. 
Thy every path delights me still, 

Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 
Again, as once, in converse gay. 
Each dear associate seems to say 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

My Lycus ! 2 wherefore dost thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But, oh, 'twill wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when hext we meet, 
Our long-wished interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
"While youthful hearts thus fondly swell. 
Absence, my friend, can onlv tell, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

In one, and one alone deceived 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn. 
I turned to those my childhood knew, 
With feelings warm, with bosoms true. 

Twined with my heart's according strings ; 
And till those vital chords shall break. 
For none but these my breast shall wake 

Friejidship, the power deprived of wings ! 

Ye few ! my soul, my life is yours. 

My memory and my hope ; 
Your worth a lasting love insures, 

Unfettered in its scope ; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung. 
With aspect fair and honeyed tongue, 

Let Adulation wait on kings ; 
With joy elate, by snares beset. 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song ; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward — 

To me no bays belong; 
If laurelled Fame but dwells with lies, 
Me the enchantress ever flies. 

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings ; 
Simple and young, I dare not feign ; 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 



' Harrow. 

- The Earl of Clare. 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE.3 

[WRITTEN DECEMBER 29, 1806.] 

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! 

Hear'st thou the accents of despair? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er torgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer ? 

Father of Light, on thee I call ! 

Thou see'st my soul is dark v^'ithin ; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of .sin. 

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 

Oh point to me the path of truth ! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 

Let superstition hail the pile. 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 

With tales of mystic rights i^eguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? 

Thy temple is the face of day ; 

Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne. 

Shall man condemn his race to hell. 
Unless they bend in pompous form ? 

Tell us that all, for one who fell. 
Must perish in the mingling storm ? 

Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 
Yet doom his brother to expire, . 

Whose soul a different hope supplies, 
Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound. 
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe ? 

Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground. 
Their great Creator's puriDOse know ? 

Shall those, who live for self alone. 
Whose years float on in daily crime — 

Shall they by Faith for guilt atone. 
And live beyond the bounds of Time ? 

Father! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
Thy laws in Nature's works appear; — 

I own myself corrupt and weak, 
Y'et will I pray, for thou wilt hear ! 

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 
Through trackless realms of aether's space; 

Who calm'st the elemental war. 
Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: — 



•' [It is difficult to conjecture for what reason these 
stanzas, which surpass any thing that Byron had yet 
written, were not included in the publication of 1807. 
Written when the author was not nineteen years of 
age, " this remarkable poem shows," says Moore, 
" how early the struggle between natural piety and 
doubt began in his mind."] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



47 



Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 
Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence. 

Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, • 
Extend to me thy wide defence. 

To Thee, my God, to thee I call ! 

Whatever weal or woe betide, 
By thy command I rise or fall. 

In thy protection I confide. 

If when this dust to dust's restored, 
My soul shall float on airy wing. 

How shall thy glorious name adored 
Inspire her feeble voice to sing! 

But, if this fleeting spirit share 
With clay the grave's eternal bea. 

While life yet throbs I raise my prayer. 

Though doomed no more to quit the dead. 

To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 
Grateful for all thy mercies past, 

And hope, my God, to thee again 
This erring' life may fly at last. 



TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.i 

" Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico." 

Horace. 

Dear Long, in this sequestered scene. 

While all around in slumber lie, 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 
Thus if amidst the gathering storm. 
While clouds the darkened noon deform. 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow. 
Which spreads the sign of future peace. 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 
Ah 1 though- the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood. 
Some lurking envious fear intrude. 
To check my bosom's fondest thougltt. 

And interrupt the golden dream, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace. 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's loie; 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Our raptured visions as before. 



I [This gentleman, who was with Byron both at 
Harrow and Cambridge, entered the Guards, and 
served in the expedition to Copenhagen. He was 
drowned in 1809, when on his way to join the army 
in the Peninsula; the transport in wiiich he sailed 
being run down in the night by another of the 
convoy. " Long's father," says Byron, " wrote to 
me to write his son's epitaph. I promised — but I 
had not the heart to complete it. He was such a 
good, amiable being as rarely remains long in this 
world; with talent and accomplishments, too, to 
make him the more regretted." — .C/ary, 1821.] 



Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion. 
And Manhood claims his stern dominion — 
Age will not every hope destroy, 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring : 
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
If frowning Age, with cold control, 
Confines the current of the soul, 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye. 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh. 
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan. 
And bids me feel for self alone ; 
Oh I may my bosom never learn 

To soothe its wonted lieedless flow ; 
Still, still despise the censor stern. 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, 
Still may I rove, untutored, wild. 
And even in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my soul is still the same. 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence I ye hours of sable hue ! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrov/s oe* ; 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I'll think upon your shade no more 
Thus when the whirlwind's rage is past. 

And caves their sullen roar enclose. 
We heed no more the wintry blast, 

When lulled by zephyr to repose. 

Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
But now, without a theme to choose. 

The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
My youthful nymphs, alas 1 are flown ; 

E • is a wife, and C a mother, 

And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary's given to another ; 
And Cora's eye, which rolled on me. 

Can now no more my love recall : 
In truth, dear LONG, 'twas time to flee; 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays. 
His beams alike to all displays. 
And every lady's eye's a sun. 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian don't become her, 
Whose sun displays a general suvimer ! 
Thus faint is every former flame, 
And passion's self is now a name. 
As, when the ebbing flames are low. 

The aid which once improved their light. 
( And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 
! Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 



48 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Thus has it been with passion's fires, 
As many a boy and girl remembers, 

While all the force of love expires, 
Extinguished with the dying embers. 

But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's noon. 
And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
Described in every stripling's verse ; 
For why should I the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before ? 
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice performed her stated round, 
Has thrice retraced her path of light, 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
Which once contained our youth's retreat; 
And then with those our childhood knew. 
We'll mingle in the festive crew ; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away ; 
And all the flow of souls shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower, 
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. 



TO A LADY.i 

Oh ! had my fate been joined with thine, 
As once this pledge appeared a token. 

These follies had not then been mine, 

For then my peace had not been broken.2 

To thee these early faults I owe. 

To thee, the wise and old reproving : 

They know my sins, but do not know 

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 

For once my soul, like tliine, Avas pure. 
And all its rising fires could smother; 

But now thy vows no more endure. 
Bestowed by tliee upon another. 

Perhaps his peace I could destroy. 
And spoil the blisses that await him ; 

Yet let my rival smile in joy, 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 

Ah 1 since thy angel form is gone, 
My heart no more can rest with any ; 

But what it sought in thee alone, 
Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 

Then fare thee v/ell, deceitful maid I 
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 



Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid. 
But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 

Yet all this giddy waste of years, 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures; 

These varied loves, these matron's fears, | 

These thoughtless strains to passion's meas- I 
ures — ■ 

If thou wert mine, had all been hushed : — 
This cheek, now pale from early riot. 

With passion's hectic ne'er had flushed, 
But bloomed in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, .| 

For Nature seemed to smile before thee ; 3 ^ 

And once my breast abhorred deceit, — 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other jo3's : 

To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal 
In spite of every vain endeavor, — 

And fiends might pity what I feel, — 
To know that thou art lost for ever. 



1 [Mrs. Musters.] 

2 [" Our union would have healed feuds in which 
blood had been shed by our fathers — it would have 
joined lands broad and rich — it would have joined 
at least rue heart, and two persons not ill matched 



I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS 
CHILD. 

I WOULD I were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave. 
Or roaming through the dusky wild, 

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave ; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon ^ pride 

Accords not with the freeborn soul. 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side, 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 

Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 

Take back this name of splendid sound ! 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me among the rocks I love. 

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; 
I ask but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath know n be- 
fore. 

in years (she is two years my elder), and — and — 
and — luh'.it has been the rest (t? "J — Diary, 1821. 

3 [" Our meetings," says £yron in 1822, " were 
stolen ones, and a gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's 
grounds to those of my movher was the place of our 
interviews. But the ardor was all on my side. 1 
was serious; she was volatile: she liked me as a 
younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a 
boy; she, however, gat'e me her picture, and that 
was something to ma'^^e verses upon. Had I mar- 
ried her, perhaps the whole tenor of my life would 
have been different."] 

* Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic;, \yord, signifying 
either Lowland or English. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



49 



Few are my years, and yet I feel 

•The world was ne'er designed for me : 
Ah ! why do darkening shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Truth! — wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this ? 

I loved — but those I loved are gone, 

Had friends — my early friends are fled : 
How cheerless feels the heart alone 

When all its former hopes are dead ! 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul. 

The heart — the heart — is lonely still. 

How dull ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or 
power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes. 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few. 

In years and feelings still the same. 
And I will fly the midnight crew. 

Where boisterous joy is but a name. 

And woman, lovely woman ! thou, 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now. 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid woe. 
To make that calm contentment mine. 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 

Pain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind; 
My breast requires the sullen glen. 

Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest 1 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 

To flee away, and be at rest.i 



WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGH- 
LANDER. 

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the 
dark heath. 
And climbed thy steep summit, oh Morven 
of snow ! 2 



* " And I said, Oh ! that I had wings like a dove ; 
for then would 1 fly away, and be at rest." — Psalm 
Iv. 6. This verse also constitutes a part of the 
most beautiful anthem in our language. 

* Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. 
" Gormal of snow," is an expression frequently to 
be found in Ossian. 



To gaze on the torrent that thundered beneath. 
Or the mist of the tempest that gathered 

below,'^ 

Untutored by science, a stranger to fear. 
And rude as the rocks where my infancy 
grew. 
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 
Need 1 say, my sweet Mary, 4 'twas centred 
in you ? 

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the 
name, — 
What passion can dwell in the heart of a 
child? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-covered 
wild : 
One im.age alone on my bosom impressed, 
I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for 
new; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were 
blessed ; 
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul 
was with you. 



3 This will not appear extraordinary to those who 
have been accustomed to the mountains. It is by 
no means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e- 
vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the 
summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, 
and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while 
the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, 
perfectly secure from its effects. 

* [In Byron's Diary for 1S13, he says, " I have 
been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. 
How very odd that I should have been so utterly, 
devotedly fond of that girl, at an age when I could 
neither feel passion, nor know the meaning of the 
word. And the effect! My mother used always to 
rally me about this childish amour; and, at last, 
many years after, when I was sixteen, she told me 
one day; 'Oh, Byron, I have had a letter from 
Edinburgh, from Aliss Abercromby, and your old 
sweetheart, Mary Duff, is married to a Mr. Gock- 
burn.' [Robert Cockburn, Esq., of Edinburgh.] 
And what was my answer.'' I really cannot explain 
or account for my feelings at that moment; but they 
nearly threw me into convulsions — to the horror of 
my mother and the astonishment of everybody. 
And it is a phenomenon in my existence (for I was 
not eight years old), which has puzzled, and will 
puzzle me to the latest hour of it." — Again, in 
January, t8ij. a ' >v days after his marriage, in a 
letter to his i !•.!:' Captain Hay, the poet thus 
speaks of his •.!,!'(!! h attachment: — " Pray tell me 
more — or as much as you like, of your cousin 
Mary. I believe I told you our story some years 
ago. I was twenty-seven a few days ago, and I 
havp never seen her since we were children, and 
young children too; but I never forget her, nor ever 
can. You will oblige me with presenting her with 
my best respects, and all good wishes. It may 
seem ridiculous — but it is at any rate, I hope, not 
offensive to her nor hers — in me to pretend to rec- 
ollect any thing about her, at so early a period of 
both our lives, almost, if not quite, in our nur- 
series; — but it was a pleasant dream, which she 



so 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as niy 
guide, 
From mountain to mountain I bounded 
along ; 
I breasted the billows of Dee's i rushing tide, 
And heard at a distance the Highlander's 
song: 
At eve, on my heath-covered couch of repose, 
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to 
my view ; 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose. 
For the first of my prayers was a blessing 
on you. 

1 left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 
The mountains are vanished, my youth is 
no more ; 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone. 
And delight but in days I have witnessed 
before : 
Ah ! splendor has raised, but embittered my 
lot; 
More dear were the scenes which my in- 
fancy knew : 
Though my hopes may have failed, yet they 
are not forgot ; 
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with 
you. 

When I see some dark hill point its crest to 
the sky, 
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Col- 
bleen ; '^ 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 
1 think of those eyes that endeared the rude 
scene ; 
When, haply, some light-waving locks I be- 
hold. 
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold. 
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and 
you, 
Yetjrthe day may arrive when the mountains 
once more 
Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : 

But while these soar above me, unchanged as 
before, 
Will Mary be there to receive me ? — ah, no ! 
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was 
bred! 
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, — 
Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but 
with vou ? 



must pardon me for remembering. Is she pi<etty 
still? I have the most perfect idea of her person, as 
a child; but Time, I suppose, has played the devil 
with us both."] 

1 The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near 
Mar Lodge and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen. 

- Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the 
Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle. 



TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. 

Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 
The friendships of childhood, though fleet- 
ing, are true ; 
The love which you felt was the love of a 
brother. 
Nor less the affection I cherished for you. 

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion ; 
The attachment of years in a moment ex- 
pires : 
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving 
pinion, 
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable 
fires. 

Full oft have we wandered through Ida to- 
gether, 
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I 
allow : 
In the spring of our life, how serene is the 
weather I 
But winter's rude tempests are gathering 
now. 

No more with affection shall memory blend- 
ing, 
The wonted delights of our childhood re- 
trace : 
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is un- 
bending. 
And what would be justice appears a dis- 
grace. 

However, dear George, for I still must esteem 
you — 
The few whom I love I can never up- 
braid — 
The chance which has lost may in future re- 
deem you, 
Repentance will cancel the vow you have 
made. 

I will not complain, and though chilled is 

affection, 

With me no corroding resentment shall live : 

My bosom is calmed by the simple reflection, 

That both may be wrong, and that both 

should forgive. 

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my 
existence 
If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 
You knew me unaltered by years or by dis- 
tance. 
Devoted to love and to friendship alot^e. 

You knew, — but away with the vain retro- 
spection ! 
The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recol- 
lection. 
And sigh for the friend who was formerly 
yours. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



51 



For the present, we part, — I will hope not for 
ever 
For time and regret will restore you at last : 
To forget our dissension we both should en- 
deavor, 
I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 



TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 

" Tu semper amoris 
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago." 
Val. Flag. 

Friend of my youth ! when young we roved. 
Like striplings, mutually beloved. 

With friendship's purest glow, 
The bliss which winged those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 

The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I've known, 

When distant far from you : 
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain. 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again, adieu ! 

My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoyed no more. 

Those scenes regretted ever ; 
The measure of our youth is full, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet — ah ! never! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams which from one fountain rise, 

Together joined in vain ; 
How soon, diverging from their source. 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course. 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or woe. 
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear 
Till death's unfathomed gulf appear. 

And both shall quit the shore. 

Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside. 

Now flow in different channels : 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'Tis yours to mix in polished courts, 

And shine in fashion's annals ; 

'Tis mine to waste on love my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme. 

Without the aid gjf' reason; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet, 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 

Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
Of late esteemed it monstrous hard 



That he, who sang before all, — 
He wlio the lore of love expanded, — 
By dire reviewers should be branded 

As void of wit and moral.i 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
Harmonious favorite of the Nine ! 

Repine not at thy lot. 
Thy soothing lays may still be read, 
When Persecution's arm is dead. 

And critics are forgot. 

Still I must yield those worthies merit. 
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; 
And though myself may be the next, 
By criticism to be vext, 

I really will not fight them.2 

Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner. 
He who offends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very hardened sinner. 

Now, Clare, I must return to you; 
And, sure, apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight 
I soar along from left to right ; 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 'tw^ould be your fate 
To add one star to royal state ; — 

May regal smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monarch reign. 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 

Yet since in danger courts abound. 
Where specious rivals glitter round. 

From snares may saints preserve you ; 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care, 

But those who best deserve you ! 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure, unerring way ! 

May no delights decoy ! 
O'er roses may your footsteps move. 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love. 

Your tears be tears of joy ! 



1 These stanzas were written soon after the ap- 
pearance of a severe critique, in a northern review, 
on anew publication of the liritish Anacreon. — [See 
Edinburgh Review, July, 1807, article on " Epistles, 
Odes, and other Poems, by Thomas Little, Esq."] 

2 A bard [Moore] (horresco referens) defied his 
reviewer [Jeffrey] to mortal combat. If this exam- 
ple becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must 
be dipped in the river Styx ; for what else can secure 
them from the numerous host of their .enraged as- 
sailants? 



52 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Oh ! if you wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless, 

And virtues crown your brow; 
Be still as you were wont to be, 
Spotless as you've been known to me, — 

Be still as you are now.i 

And though some trifling share of praise. 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear ; 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I'd wave at once a poet's fame, 

To prove a prophet here. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM 
IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HAR- 
ROW;i 

Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh. 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod. 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 



^ [" Of all I have ever known, Clare has always 
been the least altered in eveiy thing from the excel- 
lent qualities and kind affections which attached me 
to him so strongly at school. I should hardly have 
thought it possible for society (or the world, as it is 
called) to leave a being with so little of the leaven 
of bad passions. I do not speak from personal ex- 
perience only, but from all I have ever heard of him 
from others, during absence and distance." — By- 
ron's Diary, 1821.] 

- [On losing his natural daughter, Allegra, in 
April, 1822, Byron sent her remains to be buried 
at Harrow, " where," he says, in a letter to Mr. 
Murray, " I once hoped to have laid my own." 
" There is," he adds, " a spot in the churchyard, 
near the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking to- 
wards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bear- 
ing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used 
to sit for hours and hours when a boy. This was my 
favorite spot; but as I wish to erect a tablet to her 
memory, the body had better be deposited in the 
church : " — and it was so accordingly.] 



With those who, scattered far, perchance de- 
plore, 
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before ; 
Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs 

I lay. 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs re- 
cline. 
But, ah ! without the thoughts whicli then wer. 

mine : 
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
Invite the bosom to recall the past, 
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
" Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last fare- 
well! " 
When fate shall chill, at length, this fevered 
breast. 
And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying 

hour, — 
If aught may soothe when life resigns her 

power, — 
To know some humble grave, some narrow cell. 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; 
With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet 

to die — 
And here it lingered, here my heart might lie ; 
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose. 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose; 
For ever stretched beneath this mantling shade, 
Pressed by the turf where once my childhood 

played. 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved. 
Mixed with the earth o'er which my footsteps 

moved. 
Blest by the tongues that charmed my youth- 
ful ear, 
Mourned by the few my soul acknowledged 

here ; 
Deplored by those in- early days allied. 
And unremembered by the world beside. 

September 2, 1807. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

FROM 1807 TO 1824. 



THE ADIEU. 

WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT 
THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. 

Adieu, thou Hill ! 1 where early joy 

Spread roses o'er my brow ; 
Where Science seeks each loitering boy 

With knowledge to endow. 
Adieu my youthful friends or foes, 
Partners of former bliss or woes ; 

No more through Ida's paths we stray; 
Soon must I share the gloomy cell, 
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell 

Unconscious of the day. ' 

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 

Ye spires of Granta's vale, 
Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 

And Melancholy pale. 
Ye comrades of the jovial hour, 
Y'e tenants of the classic bower. 

On Cama's verdant margin placed, 
Adieu ! while memory still is mine. 
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine, 

These scenes must be effaced. 

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 

Where grew my youthful years ; 
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 

His giant summit rears. 
Why did my childhood wander forth 
From you, ye regions of the North, 

With sons of pride to roam ? 
Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, 

To seek a Sotheron home ? 

Hall of my Sires ! a long farewell — 

Y'et why to thee adieu ? 
Thy vaults will echo back my knell. 

Thy towers my tomb will view : 
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall. 
And former glories of thy Hall^ 

Forgets its wonted simple note — 
But yet the Lyre retains the strings. 
And sometimes, on ^-Eolian wings. 

In dying strains may float. 

' Harrow. 

* See ante, pp. 4, 33. 



Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 

While yet I linger here, 
Adieu ! you are not now forgot. 

To retrospection dear. 
Streamlet !^ along whose rippling surge. 
My youthful limbs were wont to urge 

At noontide heat their pliant course ; 
Plunging with ardor from the shore, 
Thy springs will lave these hmbs no more, 

Deprived of active force. 

And shall I here forget the scene, 

Still nearest to my breast ? 
Rocks rise, and rivers roll between 

The spot which passion blest ; 
Yet, Mary,-^ all thy beauties seem 
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 

To me in smiles displayed : 
Till slow disease resigns his prey 
To Death, the parent of decay, 

Thine image cannot fade. 

And thou, my Friend ! 5 whose gentle love 

Yet thrills my bosom's chords, 
How much thy friendship was above 

Description's power of words ! 
Still near my breast thy gift I wear. 
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear. 

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
Our souls were equal, and our lot 
In that dear moment quite forgot ; 

Let Pride alone condemn ! 

All, all, is dark and cheerless now ! 

No smile of Love's deceit. 
Can warm my veins with wonted glow, 

Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
Not e'en the hope of future fame. 
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, 

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
Mine is a short inglorious race, — 
To humble in the dust my face. 

And mingle with the dead. 

Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart ; 
On him who gains thy praise. 



3 [The river Crete, at Southwell.] 
* Mary Duff. See a7ite, p. 49, note. 
•' Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. See ante, 
p. 28, 



54 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 

Consumed in Glory's blaze ; 
But me she beckons from the earth, 
My name obscure, unmarked my birth, 

My life a short and vulgar dream ; 
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
My hopes recline within a shroud, 

My fate is Lethe's stream. 

When I repose beneath the sod, 

Unheeded in the clay, 
Where once my playful footsteps trod. 

Where now my head must lay ; 
The meed of Pity will be shed 
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed. 

By nightly skies, and storms alone ; 
No mortal eye will deign to steep 
With tears the dark sepulchral deep 

Which hides a name unknown. 

Forget this world, my restless sprite. 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : 
There must thou soon direct thy flight. 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown. 
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne ; 

To Him address thy trembling prayer : 
He, who is merciful and just. 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 

Father of Light ! to Thee I call, 

My soul is dark within : 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall. 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 

My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 

And, since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. o 

1007. 



TO A VAIN LADY. 

Ah, heedless girl ! why thus disclose 
What ne'er was meant for other ears : 

Why thus destroy thine own repose, 
And dig the source of future tears ? 

Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid. 
While lurking envious foes will smile. 

For all the follies thou hast said 
Of those who spoke but to beguile. 

Vain girl ! thy lingering woes are nigh, 
If thou believ'st what striplings say : 

Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
Nor fall the specious spoiler's' prey. 

Dost thou repeat, in childish boast. 
The words man utters to deceive ? 

Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, 
If thou canst venture to believe. 



While now amongst thy female peers 
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, 

Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
Duplicity in vain would veil ? 

These tales in secret silence hush, 
Nor make thyself the public gaze : 

What modest maid without a blush 
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise 

Will not the laughing boy despise 
Her who relates each fond conceit — 

Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes 
Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 

For she who takes a soft delight 
These amorous nothings in revealing, 

Must credit all we say or write. 
While vanity prevents conceahng. 

Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 

No jealousy bids me reprove : 
One, who is thus from nature vain, 

I pity, but I cannot love. 

January 15, 1807. 



TO ANNE. 

Oh, Anne ! your offences to me have been 
grievous ; 
I thought from my wrath no atonement could 
save you ; 
But woman is made to command and deceive 
us — 
Ilookedinyourface,andIalmostforgaveyou. 

I vowed I could ne'er for a moment respect you. 

Yet thought that a day's separation was long : 

When we met, I determined again to suspect 

you — 

Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was 

wrong. 

I swore, in a transport of young indignation, 
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain 
you: 
I saw you — my anger became admiration ; 
And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to re- 
gain you. 

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the con- 
tention ! 
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before 
you ; — 
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, 
Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to 
adore you! Januaiy 16, 1807. 

TO THE SAME. 

Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have 
decreed 
The heart which adores you should wish to 
dissever ; 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



55 



Such Fates were to me most unkind ones in- 
deed, — 
To bear me from love and from beauty for 
ever. 

Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which 
alone 
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; 
By these, every hope, every wish were o'er- 
thrown. 
Till smiles should restore me to rapture 
again. 

As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined. 
The rage of the tempest united must weather, 

My love and my life were by nature designed 
To flourish alike, or to perish together. 

Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have 

decreed 

Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; 

Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, 

His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 

1807. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET 
BEGINNING 

' ' SAD IS MY VERSE," YOU SAY, ' AND YET 
NO TEAR.'" 

Thy verse is " sad " enough, no doubt : 
A devilish deal more sad than witty ! 

Why we should weep, I can't find out, 
Unless, for thee we weep in pity. 

Yet there is one I pity more ; 

And much, alas ! I think he needs it : 
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore. 

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic. 
May once be read — but never after : 

Yet their effect's by no means tragic. 
Although by far 'too dull for laughter. 

But would you make our bosoms bleed. 
And of no common pang complain — 

If you would make us weep indeed. 
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. 

March 8, 1807. 



ON FINDING A FAN. 

In one who felt as once he felt, 

This might, perhaps, have fanned the flame ; 
But now his heart no more will melt. 

Because that heart is not the same. 

As when the ebbing flames are low. 

The aid which once improved their light. 

And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 
Now quenches all their blaze in night, 



Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
As many a boy and girl remembers — 

While every hope of love expires, 
Extinguished with the dying embers. 

The first, though not a spark survive, 
Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 

The last, alas ! can ne'er revive ; 
No touch can bid its warmth return. 

Or, if it chance to wake again. 

Not always doomed its heat to smother, 
It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 

Its former warmth around another. 

1807. 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 

Thou Power ! who hast ruled me through in- 
fancy's days. 
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should 
part; 
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays. 
The coldest effusion which springs from my 
heart. 

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, 
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee 
to sing; 
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee 
to soar, 
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 

Though simple the themes of my rude flow- 
ing Lyre, 
Yet even these themes are departed for ever ; 
No more beam the eyes which my dream could 
inspire. 
My visions are flown, to return, — alas, never ! 

When drained is the nectar which gladdens the 
bowl, 

How vain is the effort delight to prolong ! 
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul. 

What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, 
Of kisses and smiles which they now must 
resign ? 
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are 
flown ? 
Ah, no ! for these hours can no longer be 
mine. 

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but 
to love ? 
Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! 
But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 
When I scarcely can hope to behold them 
again ? 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have 
done, 
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my 
Sires ? 



56 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires ! 

Untouched, then, my Lyre shall reply to the 
blast — 
'Tis hushed ; and my feeble endeavors are 
o'er; 
And those who have heard it will pardon the 
past, 
When they know that its murmurs shall vi- 
brate no more. 

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot. 
Since early affection and love is o'ercast : 

Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, 
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, 
the last. 

Farewell^ my young Muse ! since we now can 
ne'er meet ; 
If our songs have been languid, they surely 
are few : 
Let us hope that the present at least will be 
sweet — 
The present — which seals our eternal 
Adieu. 1807. 



TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.i 

Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in 
the ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than 
mine ; 
That thy dark-waving branches would flourish 
around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's 
years, 
On the land of my fathers I reared thee 
with pride : 
They are past, and I water thy stem with my 
tears, — 
Thy decay not the weeds that surround 
thee can hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 

A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire ; 

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the 

power. 

But his, whose neglect may have bade thee 

expire. 



1 [Ryron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, 
planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the 
Hincy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On 
revisiting the abbey, he found the oak choked up 
by weeds, and almost destroyed; — hence these 
lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman took posses- 
sion, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant 
who was with him, " Here is a fine young oak; but 
it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper 
place." — "I hope not, sir," replied the man; " for 
it's the one that mv lord was so fond of, because he 
set it himself." The tree, of course, was spared, 
and is shown to strangers as the BvKON Oak.J 



Oh ! hardy thou wert — even now little care 
Might revive thy young head, and thy 
wounds gently heal : 
But thou wert not fated affection to share — 
For who could suppose that a Stranger 
would feel ? 

Ah, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for a 

while; 

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall 

run. 

The hand of thy Masterwill teach thee to smile, 

When Infancy's years of probation are done. 

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tower aloft from the 
weeds. 
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy 
decay. 
For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, 
And still may thy branches their beauty dis- 
play. 

Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be thine. 
Though / shall lie low in the cavern of 
death. 
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may 
shine. 
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's 
breath. 

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly 
wave 
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; 
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his i 
grave, I 

The chief who survives may recline in thy 
shade. 

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, 
He will tell them in whispers more softly to | 
tread. 
Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the 
dead. 

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing 
prime. 
Perhaps he has poured forth his young 
simple lay, 
And here must he sleep, till the moments of 
time 
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 

1807. 



ON REVISITING HARROW.2 

Here once engaged the stranger's view 
Young Friendship's record simply traced ; 

Few were her words, — but yet, though few, 
Resentment's hand the line defaced. 

- Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of 
the author engraved on a particular spot the names 
of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



59 



Deeply she cut — but not erased, 
The characters were still so plain, 

That Friendship once returned, and gazed, — 
Till Memory hailed the words again. 

Repentance placed them as before ; 

Forgiveness joine'd her gentle name ; 
So fair the inscription seemed once more, 

That Friendship thought it still the same. 

Thus might the Record now have been ; 

But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavor, 
Or Friendship's tears. Pride rushed between. 

And blotted out the line for ever ! 

September, 1807. 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF 
SOUTHWELL, 

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 

John Adams lies here, of the parish of 

Southwell, 
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth 

well ; 
He carried so much, and he carried so fast, 
He could carry no more — so was carried at 

last; 
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for 

one, 
He could not carry off, — so he's now carrl-on. 
September, 1807. 



TO MY SON.i 

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And smile to steal the heart away, 
Recall a scene of former joy. 
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy ! 

And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
Ah, William, were thine own the same,— 
No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace ; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, my Boy ! 

Her lowly grave the turf has prest, 

And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 

Derision sneers upon thy birth. 

And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 

Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 

A Father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 



Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined in- 
jury, the author destroyed the frail record before he 
left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 1807, he 
wrote under it these stanzas. 

1 [Moore in his Life of Byron questions the ex- 
istence of this son, whom he considers merely a con- 
venient fiction of the poet. But from a passage in 



Why, let the world unfeeling frown. 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown ? 
Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy- 
A Father guards thy birlh, my Boy ! 

Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace, 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run. 
At once a brother and a son ; 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 

Ahhough so young thy heedless sire, 
Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
And, wert thou still less dear to me, 
While Helen's form revives in thee. 
The breast, which beat to former joy. 
Will ne'er desert ifs pledge, my Boy ! 



1807. 



FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST 
PRAYER. 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal availed on high, 
Mine v/ill not all be lost in air, 

But vv-aft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell. 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. 

Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by. 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel : 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

1808. 



BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY 
SOUL. 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control, 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 

On earth thou wert all but divine, 
As thy soul shall immortally be ; " 

And our sorrow may cease to repine. 
When we know that thy God is with thee. 

Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be : 



Don Juan (canto XVI. stanza 61), ther« is reason te 
believe that Moore was mistaken.^ 



58 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



There should not be the shadow of gloom 
In aught that reminds us of thee. 

Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of thy rest : 

But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 

For why should we mourn for the blest ? 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. . 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken. 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee. 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve. 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee ? — 

With silence and tears. 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

Few years have passed since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, at least in name. 

And childhood's gay sincerity 

Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou knowest 
What trifles oft the heart recall ; 

And those who once have loved the most 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 

And such the change the heart displays. 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 



A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's. 
Will view thy mind estranged again. 

If so, it never shall be mine 
To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine. 
Which made thee fickle as thou art. 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
So human feelings ebb and flow; 

And who would in a breast confide, 
Where stormy passions ever glow ? 

It boots not that, together bred. 
Our childish days were days of joy: 

My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 

And when we bid adieu to youth. 

Slaves to the specious world's control. 

We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 

When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in Man's maturer years. 
When Man himself is but a tool ; 

When interest sways our hopes and fears, 
And all must love and hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same. 
We learn at length our faults to blend ; 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we then 'scape from folly free ? 

Can we reverse the general plan. 
Nor be what all in turn must be ? 

No ; for myself, so dark my fate 
Through every turn of life hath been ; 

Man and the world so much I hate, 
I care not when I quit the scene. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away ; 

As glow-worms sparkle through the night. 
But dare not stand the test of day. 

Alas ! whenever folly calls _ 

Where parasites and princes meet, ■ * 

(For cherished first in royal halls. 

The welcome vices kindly greet) ' • 

Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add 
One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 

And still thy trifling heart is glad 

To join the vain, and court the proud. 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair. 
Still simpering on with eager haste. 

As flies along the gay parterre, 

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



59 



But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
Which seems, as marshy vapors move, 

To flit along from dame to dame, 
An ignis'-fatuus gleam of love ? 

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined. 
Will deign to own a kindred care? 

Who will debase his manly mind, 
For friendship every fool may share 1 

In time forbear; amidst the throng 
No more so base a thing be seen ; 

No more so idly pass along : 

Be something, any thing, but — mean. 1 



LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP 
FORMED FROM A SKULL. 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled: 

In me behold the only skull. 
From which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quaffed, hke thee ; 

I died : let earth my bones resign : 
Fill up — thou canst not injure me; 

The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape. 

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; 

And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 

Wh.ere once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas ! our brains are gone, 

What nobler substitute than wine ? 

Quaff while thou canst : another race. 
When thou and thine Hke me are sped, 

May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 

Why not ? since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce ; 

Redeemed from worms and wasting clay, 
This chance is theirs, to be of use.2 

Newstead Abbey, i8o8. 



^ [This copy of verses, and several of the poems 
which follow it, originally appeared in a volume 
published in i8og by Mr. Hobhouse, under the title 
of " Imitations and Translations, together with 
Original Poems," and bearing the modest epigraph — 
" Nos haec novimus esse nihil."] 

- [Byron gives the following account of this 
cup: — "The gardener, in digging, discovered a 
skull that had probably belonged to some jolly friar 
or monk of the Abbey, about the time it was de- 
monasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and 
in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy 
seized me of having it set and mounted as a drink- 
ing cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it re- 
turned with a very high polish, and of a mottled 
color like tortoise-shell."] 



WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.8 

Well 1 thou art happy, and I feel 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 

Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot : 

But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not! 

When late I saw thy favorite child, 

I thought my jealous heart would break, 

But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
I kissed it for its moUier's sake. 

I kissed it, — and repressed my sighs, 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes, 

And they were all to love and me. 

Mary, adieu ! I must away : 

While thou art blest I'll not repine ; 

But near thee I can never stay ; 

My heart would soon again be thine. 

I deemed that time, I deemed that pride 
Had quenched at length my boyish flari.^ ; 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 
My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. 

Yet was I calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look ; 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, — and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face. 
Yet meet with no confusion there : 

One only feeling could'st thou trace ; 
The sullen calmness of despair. 

Away ! away ! my early dream 
Remembrance never must awake : 

Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 
My foolish heart be still, or break. 

November 2, 1808. 



INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT 
OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.-^ 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 
And storied urns record who rests below ; 
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen. 
Not what he was, but what he should have been : 
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 
Tht> first to welcome, foremost to defend. 



^ [A few days before this poem was written, the 
poet had been invited to dine at Annesley. On the 
infant daughter of his fair hostess being brought 
into the room, he started involuntarily, and with 
difiRculty suppressed his emotion.] 

* [This monument is still a conspicuous ornament 



60 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Whose honest heart is still his master's own. 
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him 

alone, 
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth. 
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven. 
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 
Who knows thee well must quit thee with dis- 
gust. 
Degraded mass of animated dust ! 
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit 1 
By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for 

shame. 
Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 
Pass on — it honors none you wish to mourn : 
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 
I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 
Newstead Abbey, November 30, i8o8. 



TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY 
REASON FOR QUITTING ENG- 
LAND IN THE SPRING. 

When Man, expelled from Eden's bowers, 
A moment lingered near the gate. 

Each scene recalled the vanished hours. 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes. 
He learnt to bear his load of grief; 

Just gave a sigh to other times, 
And found in busier scenes relief. 



in the garden of Newstead. The following is the 
inscription by which the verses are preceded: — 
" Near this spot 
Are deposited the Remains of one 
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, 
Strength without Insolence, 
Courage without Ferocity, 
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. 
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery 
If inscribed over human ashes, 
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 
BOATSWAIN, a Dog, 
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, 
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808." 
Byron thus announced the death of his favorite to 
Mr. Hodgson: — " Boatswain is dead! — he expired 
in a state of madness, on the i8th, after suffering 
much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his na"ture 
to the last; never attempting to do the least injury 
to any one near him. I have now lost every thing 
except old Murray." By the will which he exe- 
cuted in 1 81 1, he directed that his own body should 
l>e bnr>cd in a vault in the garden near his faithful 
dog.J 



Thus, lady 1 1 will it be with me, 
And I must view thy charms no more ; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise, 
Escaping from temptation's snare ; 

I cannot view my paradise. 

Without the wish of dwelling there.2 

December 2, 1808. 



REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME 
NOT. 

Remind me not, remind me not, 
Of those beloved, those vanished hours 
When all my soul was given to thee ; 
Hours that may never be forgot, 
Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
And thou and I shall cease to be. 

Can I forget — canst thou forget. 
When playing with thy golden hair, 

How quick thy fluttering heart did move ? 
Oh ! by my soul, I see thee yet, 

With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
And lips, though silent, breathing love. 

When thus reclining on my breast, 

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproached yet raised desire, 
And still we near and nearer prest, 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would close. 
And bid their lids each other seek. 
Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
While their long lashes' darkened gloss 
Seemed stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek. 
Like raven's plumage smoothed on snow. 

1 [In the first copy, " Thus, Mary ! " — (Mrs. 
Musters).] 

2 [Originally this line stood, — " Without a wish 
to enter there." The following is an extract from a 
letter of Byron's, written in 1823, only three days 
previous to his leaving Italy for Greece: — "Miss 
Chaworth was two years older than myself. She 
married a man of an ancient and respectable family, 
but her marriage was not a happier one than my own. 
Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there 
was not sympathy between their characters. I had 
not seen her for many years, when an occasion of- 
fered. I was upon the point, with her consent, of 
paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always 
had more influence over me than any one else, per- 
suaded me not to do it. ' For,' said she, ' if you go 
you will fall in love again, and then there will be a 
scene ; one step will lead to another, et cela /era 
un eclat.' I was j;uided by those reasons, and 
shortly after married. — with what success it is use- 
less to say."j 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



61 



I dreamt last night our love returned, 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its phantasy, 
Than if for other hearts I burned, 

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not. 

Of hours which, though for ever gone, 
CJan still a pleasing dream restore. 
Till thou and I shall be forgot, 
And senseless as the mouldering stone 
Which tells that we shall be no more. 



THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT 
NAME. 

There was a time, I need not name. 
Since it will ne'er forgotten be. 

When all our feelings were the same 
As still my soul hath been to thee. 

And from that hour when first thy tongue 
Confessed a love which equalled mine, 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine, 

None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
To think how all that love hath flown ; 

Transient as every faithless kiss, 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew. 
When late I heard thy lips declare, 

In accents once imagined true. 

Remembrance of the days that were. 

Yes ! my adored, yet most unkind ! 

Though thou wilt never love again, 
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me, 
Nor longer shall my soul repine, 

Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be. 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 



AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I 
- AM LOW? 

And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone. 

My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 

And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine ; 



And for awhile my sorrows cease, 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 

Oh lady ! blessed be that tear — 
It falls for one who cannot weep : 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine ; 

But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to r.epine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 

A SONG. 

Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart 

to its core ; 
Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since, 

through life's varied round. 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; 
I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling 

eye; 
I have loved! — who has not? — but what 

heart can declare. 
That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in 

its spring. 
And dreams that affection can never take 

wing, 
I had friends! — who has not? — but what 

tongue will avow. 
That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as 

thou? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may es- 
trange, 

Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou 
never canst change : 

Thou grow'st old — who does not? — but on 
earth what appears, 

Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with 
its years ? 

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 
W^e are jealous ! — who's not ? — thou hast no 

such alloy ; 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we 

enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities 

past. 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 



62 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



There we find — do we not? — in the flow of 

the soul, 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was opened on 
earth. 

And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 

Hope was left, — was she not ? — but the gob- 
let we kiss, 

And care not for Hope, who are certain of 
bliss. 

Long life to the grape ! for when summer is 

flown. 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : 
We must die — who shall not? — May our 

sins be forgiven. 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 



STANZAS TO A LADY,i ON LEAV- 
ING ENGLAND. 

'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the freshening blast ; 
And I must from this land be gone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest — 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery; 
And I have striven, but in vain. 
Never to think of it again : 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcome face, 
And ev'n in crowds am still alone. 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam, 

And I will seek a foreign home ; 

Till I forget a false fair face, 

I ne'er shall find a resting-place. 

My own dark thoughts I cannot shun. 

But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth, 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in woe ; 



1 [Mrs. Musters.] 



But frien; -yr leman I have none, 
Because i cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee, 
There's not an eye will weep for me ; 
There's not a kind congenial heart, 
Where I can claim the meanest part; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone. 
Wilt 3igh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene, 

Ot what we are, and what we've been. 

Would whelm some softer hearts with woe — - 

But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 

Yet still beats on as it begun. 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one may be ' 

Is not for vulgar eyes to see. 
And why that early love was crost. 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ; 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I've tried another's fetters too. 
With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
And I would fain have loved as well. 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
His home, his hope, his youth are gone. 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.2 

1809. 



LINES W^RITTEN IN AN ALBUM, 
AT MALTA. 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
Some name arrests the passer-by ; 

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone. 
May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 

And when by thee that name is read. 
Perchance in some succeeding year. 

Reflect on me as on the dead. 
And think my heart is buried here. 

September 14, 1809. 



TO FLORENCE.3 . 

Oh Ladv! when I left the shore. 
The distant shore which gave me birth, 



2 [Thus corrected by himself; the two last lines 
being originally — 

" Though wheresoe'er my bark may run, 
I love but thee, I love but one.'*] 
8 [These lines were written at Malta. The lady 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



63 



I hardly thought to grieve once more, 
To quit another spot on earth : 

Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 

Where panting Nature droops the head. 

Where only thou art seen to smile, 
I view my parting hour with dread. 

Though far from Albion's craggy shore, 
Divided by the dark-blue main ; 

A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er. 
Perchance I view her cliffs again : 

But wheresoe'er I now may roam. 

Through scorching cHme, and varied sea, 

Though Time restore me to my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 

On thee, in whom at once conspire 
All charms which heedless hearts can move. 

Whom but to see is to admire. 

And, oh 1 forgive the word — to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
With such a word can more offend ; 

And since thy heart I cannot share. 
Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 

And who so cold as look on thee, 
Thou lovely wanderer, and be less ? 

Nor be, what man should ever be, 
The friend of Beauty in distress ? 

Ah ! who would think that form had past 
Through Danger's most destructive path, 

Had braved the death-winged tempest's blast, 
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? 

Lady ! when I shall view the walls 
Where free Byzantium once arose. 

And Stamboul's Oriental halls 
The Turkish tyrants now inclose ; 



to whom they were addressed, and whom he after- 
wards apostrophizes in the stanzas on the thunder- 
storm of Zitza and in Childe Harold, is thus men- 
tioned in a letter to his mother : — " This letter is 
committed to the charge of a very extraord nary lady, 
whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer 
Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo pub- 
lished a narrative a few years ago. She has since 
been shipwrecked ; and her life has been from its 
commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, 
that in a romance they would appear improbable. 
She was born at Constantinople, where her father, 
Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambassador; married 
unhappily, yet has never been impeached in point 
of character; excited the vengeance of Bonaparte, 
by taking a part in some conspiracy; several times 
risked her life; and is not yet five and twenty. 
She is here on her way \^ England to join her 
husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, where she 
was paying a visit to her mother, by the approach 
of the French, and embarks soon in a ship of war. 
Since my arrival here I have had scarcely any other 
companion. I have found her very pretty, very 
accomplished, and extremely eccentric. Bonaparte 
is even now so incensed against her, that her life 



Though mightiest in the lists of fame, 
That glorious city still shall be; 

On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 
As spot of thy nativity : 

And though I bid thee now farewell. 
When I behold that wondrous scene, 

Since where thou art, I may not dwell, 
'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been. 
September, 1809. 



STANZAS . 

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDERSTORM.l 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 
Where Pindus' mountains rise. 

And angry clouds are pouring fast 
The vengeance of the skies. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost. 

And lightnings, as they play. 
But show where rocks our path have crost, 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 

When lightning broke the gloom — 
How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no ! 

'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 

On distant England's name. 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 

Another — 'tis to tell 
The mountain-peasants to descend, 

And lead us where they dwell. 

Oh ! who in such a night will dare 
To tempt the wilderness ? 



would be in danger if she were taken prisoner a 
second time."] 

1 [This thunderstorm occurred during the night of 
the nth October, 1809, when Byron's guides had 
lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains 
formerly called Pindus, in Albania. Mr. Hobhouse, 
who had rode on before the rest of the party, and 
arrived at Zitza just as the evening set in, describes 
the thunder as " roaring without intermission, the 
echoes of one peal not ceasing to roll in the moun- 
tains, before another tremendous crash burst over 
our heads; whilst the plains and the distant hills 
appeared in a perpetual blaze." " The tempest," 
he says, " was altogether terrific, and worthy of the 
Grecian Jove. I\iy Friend, with the priest and 
the servants, did not enter our hut till three in the 
morning. I now learnt from him that they had lost 
their way, and that, after wandering up and down in 
total ignorance of their position, they had stopped at 
last near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent, 
which they saw by the flashes of lightning. They 
had been thus exposed for nine ho«rs. It was long 
before we ceased to talk of the thunderstorm in the 
plain of Zitza."] 



64 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



And who 'mid thunder peals can hear 
Our signal of distress ? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road ? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad. 

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! 

More fiercely pours the storm ! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wandering through each broken path. 

O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea. 
Thy bark hath long been gone : 

Oh, may the storm that pours on me. 
Bow down my head alone ! 

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I pressed thy lip ; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock. 

Impelled thy gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 

Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 1 

Do thou, amid the fair white walls. 

If Cadiz yet be free, 
At times from out her latticed halls 

Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endeared by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles, 

To me a single sigh. 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-formed tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace. 

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st of one. 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When severed hearts repine. 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main. 

And mourns in search of thine. 



^ p' This and the two following stanzas have a 
music in tljem, which, independently of all mean- 
ing, is enchanting." — Moore. \ 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN 
GULF. 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen. 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast : 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen. 
The ancient world was won and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look. 
The azure grave of many a Roman ; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 

Florence ! whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung, 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) 

Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 

Sweet Florence I those were pleasant times. 
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
Thy charms might raise new Antonies. 

Though Fate forbids such things to be, 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curled ! 

I cannot lose a world for thee. 

But would not lose thee for a world. 

November 14, 1809. 



THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM 

IS FLOWN! 
WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever : 
We madly smile when we should groan ; 

Delirium is our best deceiver. 

Each lucid interval of thought 

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter. 

And he that acts as wise men ought, 
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 
SESrOS TO ABYDOS.--2 

If, in the month of dark December, 

Leander, who was nightly wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember ?) 

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 

If, when the wintry tempest roared. 

He sped to Hero, nothing loth. 
And thus of old thy cifrrent poured. 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 



2 On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette 
(Captain Bathurst) was lyin^ in the Dardanelles, 
Lieutenant F.kenhead, of that frigate and the writer 
of these rhymes swam from the Furopean shore to 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



65 



For me, degenerate modern wretch, 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. 
And think I've done a feat to-day. 

But since he crossed the rapid tide. 
According to the doubtful story, 

To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside. 
And swam for Love, as I for Glory; 

'Twere hard to say who fared the best : 

Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague you ! 

He lost his labor, I my jest : 
For he was drowned, and I've the ague.i 
May 9, 1810. 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 

Zoiirj \i.ov, <ra? ayanijii. 

Maid of Athens,2 ere we part. 
Give, oh, give me back my heart! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ; 



the Asiatic — by the by, from Abydos to Sestos 
would have been more correct. The whole distance, 
from the place whence we started to our landing on 
the other side, including the length we were car- 
ried by the current, was computed by those on board 
the frigate at upwards of four English miles; though 
the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of 
the current is such that no boat can row directly 
across, and it may, in some measure, be estimated 
from the circumstance of the whole distance being 
accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and 
five, and by the other in an hour and ten minutes. 
The water was extremely cold, from the melting of 
the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in 
April, we had made ^n attempt; but, having ridden 
all the way from the Yroad the same morning, and 
the water being of an icy chillness, we found it nec- 
essary to postpone the comi.letion till the frigate 
anchored below the castles, when we swam the 
straits, as just stated; entering a considerable way 
above the European, and landing below the Asiatic, 
fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the 
same distance for his mistress; and Oliver mentions 
its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our con- 
sul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circum- 
stances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. 
A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have 
accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing 
that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been en- 
tertained of the truth of Leander's story, no travel- 
ler had ever endeavored toascertain its practicability. 

1 [" My companion," says Mr. Hobhouse, " had 
before made a more perilous, but less celebrated 
passage; for I recollect that, when we were in Por- 
tugal, he swam from Old Lisbon to Belem Castle, 
and having to contend with a tide and counter cur- 
rent, the wind blowing freshly, was but little less 
than two hours in crossing."] 

2 " Theresa, the Maid of Athens, and her sisters 
Catinco, and Mariana, are of middle stature. The 
two eldest have black, or dark, hair and eyes; thetr 
'is.ge oval, and complexion somewhat pale, with 



Hear my vow before I go, 

ZojTj fJiov, aas ayanut.^ 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Wooed by each ^2gean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe, 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 

ZuJT} IJ.OV, (Ta<: ayanio. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers 4 that tell 
What words can never speak so well-, 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 

Zoii) /xoi), <rds ayaTTio. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fiy to Istambol, 5 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 

Zc6t) fJiov, (rds dyaTTw. 

Athens, i8i« 



MY EPITAPH. 

Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, 
To keep my lamp in strongly strove ; 
But Romanelli was so stout. 
He beat all three — and i/ew it ouifi 

October, 1810. 



teeth of dazzling whiteness. Their cheeks are round- 
ed, and noses straight, rather inclined to aquiline. 
The youngest, Mariana, is very fair, her face not so 
finely rounded, but has a gayer expression than her 
sisters', whose countenances, except when the con- 
versation has something of mirth in it, may be said 
to be rather pensive. Their persons are elegant, and 
their manners pleasing and ladylike, such as would 
be fascinating in any country. They possess very 
considerable powersof conversation, and their minds 
seem to be more instructed than those of the Greek 
women in general." — IFiV/i'avis' Travels in 
Greece. 

3 Romaic expression of tenderness : If I translate 
it, I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem 
that I supposed they could not; and if I do not, I 
may affront the ladies. For fear of any miscon- 
struction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, 
begging pardon of the learned. It means, " My 
life, I love you!" which sounds very prettily in all 
languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at 
this day as, Juvenal tells us, the two first words 
were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic ex- 
pressions were all Hellenised. 

* In the East (where ladies are not taught to 
write, lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, 
cinders, pebbles, etc., convey the sentiments of ihc 
parties by that universal deputy of Mercury — an 
old woman. A cinder says, " I burn for thee;" a 
bunch of flowers tied with hair, " Take me and fly ;" 
but a pebble declares — what nothing else can. 

^ Constantinople. 

" [" I have just escaped from a physician and a 
fever. In spite of my teeth and longue, the Enj,- 



66 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. 

Kind Reader! take your choice to cry or 

laugh ; 
Here Harold lies — but where's his Epitaph ? 
If such you seek, try Westminster, and view 
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you. 

Athens. 



LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK 
AT ORCHOMENUS. 

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRIT- 
TEN : — 

Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nursery of art : 
Noble his object, glorious is his aim ; 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name. 

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED 
THE FOLLOWING : — 

The modest bard, like many a bard unknown. 
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his 

own ; 
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse. 
His name would bring more credit than his 

verse. ,o,^. 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS 
GREEK WAR-SONG. 

"AeOre TratSes tcoj' 'EAA.tji'wj'." 1 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour's gone forth, 
And, worthy of such ties, 

Display who gave us birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
Let your country see you rising, 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages. 

Oh, start again to life ! 



lish consul, my Tartar, Albanian, dragoman, forced 
a physician upon me, and in three days brought me 
to the last jrasp. In this state I made my epitaph."] 
— Byron to Mr. Hodgson, October 3, 1810. 

I The song Aeure TraZSe?, etc., was written by 
Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize 
Greece. This translation is as literal as the author 
could make it in verse. It is of the same measure 
as that of the original. 



At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
And the seven-hilled 2 city seeking. 

Fight, conquer, till we're free. 

Sons of Greeks, etc. 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally ! 
Leonidas recalling. 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible ! the strong ! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood. 
And like a lion raging. 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, etc' 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC 
SONG, 

" MTratVco /u-eo"' *s to TrepijSoAi 
'I^paioTttTTj Xal'fijj," etc.* 

I enter thy garden of roses. 

Beloved and fair Haid6e, 
Each morning where Flora reposes. 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee. 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree. 
Through her eyes, through her every feature. 

Shines the soul of the young Haid'ee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful 

When Love has abandoned the bowers ; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 



2 Constantinople. " 'E7rTaAo<|)o?." 

3 [Riga was a Thessalian, and passed the first 
part of his youth among his native mountains, in 
teaching ancient Greek to his countrymen. On the 
outbreak of the French Revolution, he and some 
other enthusiasts perambulated Greece, rousing the 
bold, and encouraging the timid by their minstrelsy. 
He afterwards went to Vienna to solicit aid for a 
rising, but was given up by the Austrian govern- 
ment to the Turks, who vainly endeavored by tor- 
ture to force from him the names of the other con- 
spirators.] 

* The song from which this is taken is a great 
favorite with the young girls of Athens of all classes. 
Their manner of singing it is by verses in rotation, 
the whole number present joining in the chorus. I 
have heard it frequently at our " xopo'*" •" ^^ 
winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



67 



That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when poured from the chaUce, 

Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel 1 in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save : 
Will nought to my bosom restore thee ? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah*, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me 
cherish. 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses. 

Beloved but false Haidee 1 
There Flora all withered reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A 
PICTURE. 

Dear object of defeated care! 

Though now of Love and thee bereft. 
To reconcile me with despair, 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

"Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true : 
For by the death-blow of my Hope 

My Memory immortal grew. 

Athens, January, i8ii. 



ON PARTING. 

The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left, 

Shall never part from mine. 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams. 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams. 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast. 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh ! what can idle words avail. 

Unless the heart could speak ? 



By day or night, in weal or woe, 
That heart, no longer free. 

Must bear the love it cannot show, 
And silent ache for thee. 

March, i8i 



EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, 
LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER, i 

Stranger ! behold, interred together, 
The souls of learning and of leather. 
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all : 
You'lf find his relics in a stall. 
His works were neat, and often found 
Well stitched, and with jnorocco bound. 
Tread lightly — where the bard is laid 
He cannot mend the shoe he made ; 
Yet is he happy in his hole, 
• With verse immortal as his sole. 
But still to business he held fast, 
And stuck to Phoebus to the last. 
Then who shall say so good a fellow 
Was only " leather and prunella ? " 
For character — he did not lack it; 
And if he did, 'twere shame to " Black-it." 
Malta, May i6, i8ii. 



FAREWELL TO MALTA. 

Adieu, ye joys of La Valette ! 

Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! 

Adieu, thou palace rarely entered ! 

Adieu, ye mansions where — I've ventured ! 

Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 

(How surely he who mounts you swears !) 

Adieu, ye merchants often failing ! 

Adieu, thou mob for ever railing! 

Adieu, ye packets — without letters ! 

Adieu, ye fools — who ape your betters! 

Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine. 

That gave me fever, and the spleen ! 

Adieu that stage which makes us yawn. Sirs, 

Adieu his Excellency's dancers ! 

Adieu to Peter — whom no fault's in, 

But could not teach a colonel waltzing; 

Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! 

Adieu red coats, and redder faces ! 

Adieu the supercilious air 

Of all that strut " en militaire ! " 

I go — but God knows when, or why, 

To smoky towns and cloudy sky. 

To things (the honest truth to say) 

As bad — but in a different way. — 

Farewell to these, but not adieu, 
Triumphant sons of truest blue ! 
While either Adriatic shore, 

> [He died in iBio, and his works have followed 
him.J 



68 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, 
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, 
Proclaim you war and women's winners. 
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is. 
And take my rhyme — because 'tis " gratis.' 

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser, 
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her — 
And were I vain enough to think 
My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
A line — or two — were no hard matter. 
As here, indeed, I need not flatter : 
But she must be content to shine 
In better praises than in mine. 
With lively air and open heart, 
And fashion's ease, without its art ; 
Her hours can gaily glide along, 
Nor ask the aid of idle song. — 

And now, O Malta ! since thou'st got us. 
Thou little military hothouse ! 
I'll not offend with words uncivil. 
And wish thee rudely at the Devil, 
But only stare from out my casement, 
And ask, for what is such a place meant ? 
Then, in my solitary nook, 
Return to scribbling or a book. 
Or take my physic while I'm able 
('I"wo spoonfuls hourly by the label). 
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, 
And bless the gods — I've got a fever ! 

May 26, 1811. 



TO DIVES. 

A FRAGMENT, 

Unhappy Dives ! in an evil hour 

'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds ac- 
curst ! 

Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her 
power ; 

Wrath's viol on thy lofty head hath burst. 

In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first, 

How wond'rous bright thy blooming morn 
arose ! 

But thou wert smitten with th' unhallowed 
thirst 

){ Crime un-named, and thy sad noon must 
close 

m scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of 
woes. j8ii. 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, 
OR FARCICAL OPERA. 

Good plays are scarce, 
So Moore writes farce : 
The poet's fame grows brittle — 



We knew before 
That Littles Moore, 
But now 'tis Moore that's little. 

September 14, iSii.^ 



EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,2 

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING 
THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND 
TO "BANISH CARE." 

" Oh ! banish care " — such ever be 

The motto of thy revelry ! 

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 

Renew those riotous delights, 

Wherewith the children of Despair 

Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." 

But not in morn's reflecting hour. 

When present, past, and future lower, 

When all I loved is changed or gone. 

Mock with such taunts the woes of one, 

Whose every thought — but let them pass — 

Thou know'st I am not what I was. 

But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 

Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 

By all the powers that men revere, 

By all unto thy bosom dear. 

Thy joys below, thy hopes above. 

Speak — speak of any thing but love. 

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear. 
The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
And there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms would bewail. 
But mine has suffered more than well 
■'Twould suit philosophy to tell. 
I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant, which she bore. 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore. 
When she and I in youth have smiled. 
As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
Ask if I felt no secret pain ; 
And / have acted well my part. 
And made my cheek belie my heart. 
Returned the freezing glance she gave. 
Yet felt the while that woman's slave ; — 
Have kissed, as if without design. 
The babe which ought to have been mine, 
And showed, alas! in each caress 
Time had not made me love the less.3 

1 [The farce was called " M. P.; or, the Blue 
Stocking."] 

2 [Francis Hodgson.] 

3 [These lines will showwilh what gloomy fidelity, 
even while under the pressure of recent sorrow, the 
poet reverted to the disappointment of his early 
affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings 
and errors, present and to come. — Moore. ^ 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



69 



But let this pass — I'll whine no more, 
Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
The world befits a busy brain, — 
I'll hie me to its haunts again. 
But if, in some succeeding year. 
When Britain's " May is in the sere," 
Thou hcar'st of one, whose deepening crimes, 
Suit with the sablcst of the times, 
Of one, whom love nor pity sways, 
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, 
One, who in stern ambition's pride, 
Perchan,-e not blood shall turn aside, 
One ranked in some recording page 
With the worst anarchs of the age. 
Him wilt thou know — and knowing ■^2i\x'i>Q., 
Nor with the effect forget the cause.i 

Nevvstead Abbey, October ii, 1811. 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot, 

And say, what Truth might well have said. 

By all, save one, perchance forgot. 
Ah ! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 

By many a shore and m.any a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, the future fled to thee 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 

Could this have been — a word, a look 
That softly said, " We part in peace," 

Had taught my bosom how to brook. 
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 

And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
Prepared a light and pangless dart. 

Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see. 
Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? 

Oh ! who like him had watched thee here ? 

Or sadly marked thy glazing eye. 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh, 

Till all was past ? But when no more 
'Twas thine to reck of human woe. 

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 
Had flowed as fast — as now they flow. 

Shall they not flow, when many a day 
In these, to me, deserted towers. 

Ere called but for a time away. 

Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 

Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else might understand ; 
The whispered thought of hearts allied. 

The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 



^ [The anticipations of his own future career in 
these concluding lines are of a nature, it must be 
owned, to awaken more of horror than of interest, 



The kiss, so guiltless and refined 
That Love each warmer wish forbore ; 

Those eyes proclaimed so pure a mind. 
Even passion blushed to plead for more. 

The tone, that taught me to rejoice. 
When prone, unlike thee, to repine; 

The song, celestial from thy voice, 
But sweet to me from none but thine ; 

The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 

But where is thine ? — Ah ! where art thou ? 

Oft have I borne the weight of ill. 
But never bent beneath till now ! 

Well hast thou left in Hfe's best bloom 
The cup of woe for me to drain. 

If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again ; 

But if in worlds more blest than this 

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 
Impart some portion of thy bliss. 

To wean me from mine anguish here. 

Teach me — too early taught by thee 1 
To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 

On earth thy love was such to me ; 

It fain would form my hope in heaven I 

October 11, 181 1.2 



were we not prepared, by so many instances of his 
exaggeration in this respect, not to be startled at 
any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling would 
carry him. — Moore. ^ 

2 [Moore considers "Thyrza" a mere creature 
of the poet's brain. " It was," he says, " about the 
time when he was thus bitterly feeling, and express- 
ing, the blight which his heart had suffered from a 
real object of affection, that his poems on the death 
of an iniagi7iary one were written; — nor is it any 
wonder, when we consider the peculiar circum- 
stances under which those beautiful effusions flowed 
from his fancy, that of all his strains of pathos, they 
should be the most touching and most pure. They 
were, indeed, the essence, the abstract spirit, as it 
were, of many griefs ; — a confluence of sad thoughts 
from many sources of sorrow, refined and warmed in 
their passage through his fancy, and forming thus 
one deep reservoir of mournful feeling." It is a pity 
to disturb a sentiment thus beautifully expressed: 
but Byron, in a letter to Mr. Dallas, bearing the 
exact date of these lines, namely, Oct. 11, 1811, 
writes as follows: — "I have been again shocked 
with a death, and have lost one very dear to me in 
happier times: but ' I have almost forgot the taste 
of grief,' and ' supped full of horrors,' till I have 
become callous; nor have I a tear left for an event 
which, five years ago, would have bowed my head 
to the earth." In his reply to this letter, Mr. Dallas 
says, — "I thank you for your confidential com- 
munication. How truly do I wish that that being 
had lived, and lived yours! What your obligations 
to her would have been in that case is inconceivable." 
Several years after the series of poems on Thyrza 
were written, Byron, on being asked to whom they 
referred, by a person in whose tenderness he never 
ceased to confide/ refused to answer, with marks of 



70 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



AWAY, AWAY! YE NOTES OF WOE! 

Away, away, yc notes of woe ! 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
Or I must flee from hence — for, oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
I must not think, I may not gaze 

On what I am — on what I was. 

The voice that made those sounds more 
sweet 

Is hushed, and all their charms are fled ; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
Yes, Tliyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee. 

Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
And all that once was harmony ' 

Is worse than discord to my heart 1 

'Tis silent all! — but on my ear 

The well remembered echoes thrill ; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still : 
Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; 

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 

Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep. 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep, 

Then turned from earth its tender beam. 
But he who through life's dreary way 

Musfpass, when heaven is veiled in wrath. 
Will long lament the vanished ray 

That scattered gladness o'er his path. 
December 6, i8ii. ^ 



ONE STRUGGLE MORE AND I AM 
FREE. 

One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
One last long sigh to love and thee. 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before : 
Though every joy is fled below. 

What future grief can touch me more ? 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ; 

Man was not formed to live alone : 
I'll be that light, unmeaning thing 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 

agitation, such as rendered recurrence to the subject 
impossible. The five following pieces are all de- 
voted to Thyrza.] 

1 [" I wrote this a day or two ago, on hearing a 
song of former days." — Byron s Letters, Dec. 8, 
iSii,] 



It was not thus in days more dear, 
It never would have been, but thou 

Hast fled, and left me lonely here; 
Thou'rt nothing, — all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still! 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 
For then I deemed the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon. 

When sailing o'er the /Egean wave, 
" Now Thyrza gazes on that moon — " 

Alas, it gleamed upon her grave ! 

When stretched on fever's sleepless bed, 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
" 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 

" That Thyrza cannot know my pains : " 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 

A boon 'tis idle then to give, 
Relenting Nature vainly gave 

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days. 

When love and life alike were new ! 
How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 

How tinged by tiine with sorrow's hue ! 
The heart that gave itself with thee 

Is silent — ah, were mine as still! 
Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 

Or break the heart to which thou'rt pressed 
Time tempers love, but not removes. 

More hallowed when its hope is fled : 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves 

To that which cannot quit the dead ? 



EUTHANASIA. 

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless slee]) that lulls the dead, 

Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 

No band of friends or heirs be there. 
To weep, or wish the coming blow: 

No maiden, with dishevelled hair, 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 



OCCA SIGNAL PIE CES. 



71 



But silent let nie sink to earth, 
With no officious mourners near; 

I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs. 

Might then exert its latest power 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
Thy features still sei-ene to see : 

Forgetful of its struggles past, 
E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 

But vain the wish — for Beauty still 
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 

A.nd woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour. 
Without regret, without a groan ; 

for thousands Death hath ceased to lower. 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

" Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go ! 
To be the nothing that I was 

Ere born to life and living woe 1 

Count, o'er the joys thine hours have seen. 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

A.nd know, whatever thou hast been, 
'Tis something better not to be. 



AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG 
AND FAIR. 

* Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam 
tui meminisse! " 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon returned to Earth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow. 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved and long must love. 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou. 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 



The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers. 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too mucii to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have passed away, 
I might have watched through long decay. 

The flower in ripened bloom unmatched 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatched, 

The leaves must drop away : 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it plucked to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that followed such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath passed, 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extinguished, not decayed ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep. 

My tears might well be shed. 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain. 

Though thou hast left me free. 
The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 

February, 1812. 



IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS 
OF MEN. 

If sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again 



72 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore, 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 

I waste one thought I owe to thee. 
And, self-condemned, appear to smile, 

Unfaithful to thy Memory ! 
Nor deem that memory less dear, 

That then I seem not to repine ; 
I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

If not the goblet passed unquaffed. 

It is not drained to banish care ; 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught. 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

That drowned a single thought of thee. 

For wert thou vanished from my mind, 

Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
And who would then remain behind 

To honor thine abandoned Urn ? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
Though all the world forget beside, 

'Tis meet that I remember still. 

For well I know, that such had been. 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmourned shall quit this mortal scene. 

Where none regarded him, but thou : 
And, oh ! I feel in that was given 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 

For earthly Love to merit thee. 

March 14, 1812. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

^GLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes ; 
She makes her own face, and does not make 
her rhymes. 



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH 
WAS BROKEN. 

Ill-fated Heart ! and can it be 
That thou should'st thus be rent in twain ? 

Have years of care for thine and thee 
Alike been all employed in vain ? 

Yet precious seems each shattered part. 
And every fragment dearer grown. 

Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of his own. 

March 16, 1812. 



LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.i 

Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay, 

Ah I happy if each tear of thine 
Could wash a father's fault away ! 

Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 

And be each drop in future years 
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 

March, 1819. 



THE CHAIN I GAVE. 

FROM THE TURKISH. 

The chain I gave was fair to view, 
The lute I added sweet in sound ; 

The heart that offered both was true, 
And ill deserved the fate it found. 

These gifts were charmed by secret spell 

Thy truth in absence to divine ; 
And they have done their duty well, — 

Alas I they could not teach thee thine. 

That chain was firm in every link, 
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 

That lute was sweet — till thou could'st think 
In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shivered in his grasp. 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they altered too ; 

The chain is broke, the music mute. 
'Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK 
LEAF OF THE "PLEASURES OF 
MEMORY." 

Absent or present, still to thee. 

My friend, what magic spells belong! 

As all can tell, who share, like me. 
In turn thy converse, and thy song. 

1 [This impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, 
that the Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears 
on hearing that the Wliigs had found it impossible lo 
form a cabinet, at the period of Perceval's death. 
They were appended lo the first edition of the " Cor- 
sair," and excited a sensation marvellously dispro- 
portionate to their length, — or, we may add, their 
merit. The ministerial prints raved for two months 
on end, in the most foul-mouthed vituperation of the 
poet, — the Morning Post even announced a motion 
in the House of Lords — " and all this," Byron 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



73 



But when ihc dreaded hour shall come, 
By Friendship ever deemed too nigh, 

And " Memory" o'er her Druid's tombi 
Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 

How fondly will she then repay 
Thy homage offered at her shrine. 

And blend, while ages roll away. 
Her name immortally with th'me ! 

April 19, 1812. 



ADDRESS, 

SrOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE 
THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCT. lO, 1812.- 

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed. 
Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and 

mourned, 
Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned !) 
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments 

riven. 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from 

heaven ; 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled 

Thames. 3 



writes to Moore, " as Bedreddin in the Arabian 
Nights remarks, for making a cream tart with pep- 
per: how odd, that eight lines should have given 
birth, I really think, to eight thousand! "] 

1 [" When Rogers does talk, he talks well; and, 
on all subjects of taste, his delicacy of expression is 
pure as his poetry. If you enter his house — his 
drawing-room — his library — you of yourself say, 
this is not t'ne dwelling of a common mind. There is 
not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside on his chim- 
ney-piece, his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak 
an almost fastidious elegance in the possessor." — 
Byron's Diary, 1813.] 

2 The theatre in Drury Lane, which was opened 
in 1747, with Dr. Johnson's masterly address, and 
witnessed the last glories of Garrick, having fallen 
into decay, was rebuilt in 1794. The new building 
perished by fire in 1811 ; and the Managers, in their 
anxiety that the opening of the present edifice should 
be distinguished by some composition of at least 
equal merit, advertised in the newspapers for a gen- 
eral competition. Scores of addresses, not one tol- 
erable, showered on their desk, and they were in sad 
despair, when Lord Holland interfered, and not 
without difficulty, prevailed on Byron to write these 
verses — " at the risk," as he said, " of offending a 
hundred scribblers and a discerning public." The 
admirable jeu d'esprit of the Messrs. Smith will 
long preserve the memory of the " Rejected Ad- 
dresses."] 

3 [" By the by, the best view of the said fire 
(which I myself saw from a house-top in Covent 
Garden) was at Westminster Bridge from the reflec- 
tion of the Thames." — Byron to Lord Holland.'\ 



While thousands, thronged around the burn- 
ing dome. 
Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their 

home, 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly 

shone 
The skies, with lightnings awful as their 

own, 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her 

fall; 
Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile. 
Reared where once rose the mightiest in our 

isle. 
Know the same favor which the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and 

you f 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene. 
And bids the Drama be where she hath been : 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say, Hoio Well! 

As soars this fane to emulate the last. 
Oh I might we draw our omens from the past. 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may 

boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormed the stern- 
est heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew. 
Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : 
But still for livmg wit the wreaths may bloom 
That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claimed and claims — nor you 

refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own Menander's 

head! 
Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead ! 

Dear are the days which made our annals 
bright. 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley^ ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs. 
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs. 

* [Originally, " Ere Garrick died,'" etc., — " By 
the by one of my corrections in the copy sent yes- 
terday has dived into the bathos some sixty fathom — 
' When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.' 
Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and 
ought not to be first. Second thoughts in every 
thing are best; but, in rhyme, third and fourth don't 
come ami.ss. I always scrawl in this way, and 
smooth as fast as I can, but never sufficiently; and, 
latterly, I can weave a nine line stanza faster than 
a couplet, for which measure I have not the cunning. 
When I began ' Childe Harold,' I had never tried 
Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble in 
any other." — Byron to Lord Holland.'\ 



74 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's 

glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names emblazoned on our line, 
Pause — ere their feebler offspring you con- 
demn. 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 

Friends of the stage ! to whom both Play- 
ers and Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise. 
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish or reject ; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame. 
And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, 
All past reproach may present scenes refute. 
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! i 
Oh 1 since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
Forbear to mock us. with misplaced applause ; 
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
And reason's voice be echoed back by ours ! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obeyed, 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid. 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win 

your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
Britons our judges. Nature for our guide, 
Still may we please — long, long may ymi 

preside ! 



PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS.2 

BY DR. PLAGIARY. 

Half stolen, vf'vCn acknowledgements, to be spoken 
in an inarticulate voice by Master P. at the opening 
of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with 
the inverted commas of quotation — thus " " 

" When energizing objects men pursue," 
Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows 
who. 



1 [The following lines were omitted by the Com- 
mittee — 

" Nay, Tower still, the Drama yet deplores 
That late she deigned to crawl upon all-fours. 
When Richard roars in Bosworth for a horse, 
If you command, the steed must come in course. 
If you decree, the stage must condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend. 
Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce, 
And gratify you more by showing less. 
The past reproach let present scenes refute, 
Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute." 
" Is Whitbread," said Byron, " determined to 
castrate all my cavalry lines ? I do implore, for my 
own gratification, one lash on those accursed quadru- 
peds — ' a long shot. Sir Lucius, if you love me. '"J 

2 [Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane 



" A modest monologue you here survey," 
Hissed from the theatre the " other day," 
As if Sir Fretful wrote " the slumberous '' verse, 
And gave his son " the rubbish " to rehearse. 
" Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," 
Knew you the rumpus which the author raised ; 
" Nor even here.your smiles would be represt," 
Knew you these lines — the badness of the best. 
" Flame I fire ! and flame ! 1" (words borrowed 

from Lucretius,) 
" Dread metaphors which open wounds " like 

issues 
"And sleeping pangs awake — and — but 

away " 
(Confound me if I know what next to say). 
" Lo Hope reviving re-e.xpands her wings," 
And Master G — recites what Doctor Busby 

sings ! — 
" If mighty things with small we may compare," 
(Translated from the grammar for the fair!) 
Dramatic " spirit drives a conquering car," 
And burned poor Moscow like a tub of " tar." 
" This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," 
To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 
" Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's 

story," 
And George and I will dramatize it for ye. 

" In arts and sciences our isle hath shone" 
(This deep discovery is mine alone). 
" Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire " 
My verse — or I'm a fool — and Fame's a liar, 
" Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore " 
With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," 

and much more. 
These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain 
Disgraces, too ! " inseparable train !" 
" Three who have stolen their witching airs 

fi-om Cupid " 
(You all know what I mean, unless you're 

stupid) : 
"Harmonious throng" that I have kept in 

petto, 
Now to produce in a " divine sesfetto" / f 
" While Poesy," with these delightful do.xies, 
" Sustains her part " in all the " upper " boxes ! 
"Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," 
Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; 
" Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and 

play " 
(For this last line George had a holiday). 
"Old Drury never, never soared so high," 
So says the manager, and so says I. 
" But hold, you say, this self-complacent 

boast ; " 
Is this the poem which the public lost ? 

Committee was one by Dr. Busby, entitled "A 
Monologue," of which the above is a parody. It 
began; — 

"When energizing objects men pursue, 
What are the prodigies they cannot do? 
A magic edifice you here survey. 
Shot from the ruins of the other day, etc."] 



OCCAS/OJVAL PIECES. 



75 



" True — true — that lowers at onee our mount- 
ing pride;" 
But lo ! — tlie papers print what you deride. 
" 'Tis ours to look on you — you hold the prize," 
'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise ! 
"A double blessinj^f your rewards impart" — 
I wish I had them, then, with all my heart, 
" Our tioofold feeling owns its twofold eause," 
Why son and I both beg for your applause. 
" When in your fostering beams you bid us 

live," 
My next subscription list shall say how much 
you give ! October, 1812. 



VERSES FOUND IX A SUMMER 
HOUSE AT HALES-OWEN.i 

When Dryden's fool, " unknowing what he 

sought," 
His hours in whistling spent, " for want of 

thought," - 
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense 
Supplied, and amply too by innocence ; 
Did modern swains, possessed of Cymon's 

powers, 
In Cvmon's manner waste their leisure hours, 
Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, 

see 
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. 
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas ! 
When vice and folly mark them as they pass. 
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whitened wall. 
The filth they leave still points out where they 

crawl. 



REMEMBER THEE! 
THEE! 



REMEMBER 



Remember thee ! remember thee ! 

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream 
Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, 

And haunt thee like a feverish dream ! 

Remember thee ! Ay, doubt it not. 

Thy husband too shall think of thee: 
By neither shalt thou be forgot, 

T\iOM false to him, Xhoxi fiend to me ! 3 



TO TIME. 

Time! on whose arbitrary wing 
The varying hours must flag or fly, 

Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,' 
But drag or drive us on to die — 



1 [In Warwickshire.] 

^ [See Cymon and Iphigenla.] 

* [On the cessation of a temporary liaison formed 



Hail thou! who on my biith bestowed 
Those boons to ail that know thee known; 

Yet better I sustain thy load, 

For now I bear the weight alone, 

I would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given ; 

And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven ; 

To them be joy or rest, on me 
Thy future ills shall press in vain; 

I nothing owe but years to thee, 
A debt already paid in pain. 

Yet even that pain was some relief; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts tiie hour. 

In joy I've sighed to think thy flight 
Would soon subside from swift to slovr ; 

Thy cloud could overcast the light. 
But could not add a night to woe ; 

For then, however drear and dark, 

My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
One star alone shot forth a spark 

To prove thee — not Eternity. 

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
A blank ; a thing to count and curse 

Through each dull tedious trifling part, 
Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 

One scene even thou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed 
When future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 

And I can smile to think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 

When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 



TR.\NSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE 
SONG. 

Ah ! Love was never yet without 
The pang, the agony, the doubt, 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my woe, 
I faint, I die beneath the blow. 



by Lord Byron during his London career, the fair 
one called one morning at her quondam lover's 
apartments. His Lordship was from home: but 
finding Vathek on the table, the lady wrote in the 
first page of the volume the words " Remember 
me ! " Byron immediatelv wrote under the ominous 
warning these two stanzas. —^t?</a»/«.] 



76 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



That Love had arrows, well I knew ; 
Alas ! I find them poisoned too. 

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 
Or, circled by his fatal fuc, 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 

A bird of free and careless wing 
Was I, through many a smiling spring; 
But caught within the subtle snare, 
I burn, and feebly flutter there. 

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 
Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
The cold repulse, the look askance. 
The lightning of Love's angry glance. 

In flattering dreams I deemed thee mine ; 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and thy power. 

My light of life 1 ah, tell me why 

That pouting lip, and altered eye ? 

My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 

f\.nd art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 
What wretch with me would barter woe ? 
My bird ! relent : one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live. 

My curdling blood, my maddening brain, 

In silent anguish I sustain ; 

And still thy heart, without partaking 

One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 

Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
Thou canst not murder more than now : 
I've lived to curse my natal day. 
And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest ? 
Alas ! too late, I dearly know 
That joy is harbinger of woe. 



THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU 
ART FICKLE. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
To those thyself so fondly sought ; 

The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
Are doubly bitter from that thought : 

'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest. 

Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 

The wholly false the heart despises. 
And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 

But she who not a thought disguises. 
Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 

When she can change who loved so truly, 

It feels what mine has felt so newlv. 



To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
Is doomed to all who love or live ; 

And if, when conscious on the morrow, 
We scarce our fancy can forgive, 

That cheated us in slumber only. 

To leave the waking soul more lonely, 

What must they feel whom no false vision, 
But truest, tenderest passion warmed ? 

Sincere, but swift in sad transition ; 
As if a dream alone had charmed ? 

Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming. 

And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
"ORIGIN OF LOVE." 

The " Origin of Love ! " — Ah, why 
That cruel quesdon ask of me. 

When thou mayst read in many an eye 
He starts to life on seeing thee ? 

And shouldst thou seek his end to know: 
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 

He'll linger long in silent woe ; 
But live — until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S 
POWER. 

Remember him, whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
Remember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 

That yielding breast, that melting eye, 
Too much invited to be blessed : 

That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh. 
The wilder wish reproved, repressed. 

Oh 1 let me feel that all I lost 

But saved thee all that conscience fears ; 
And blush for every pang it cost 

To spare the vain remorse of years. 

Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
And brand a nearly blighted name. 

Think that, whate'er to others, thou 

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued; 

I bless thy purer soul even now, 
Even now, in midnight solitude. 

Oh, God ! that we had met in time, 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 

When thou hadst loved without a crime, 
And I been less unworthy thee ! 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



77 



Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
From this our gaudy world be past ! 

And that too bitter moment o'er, 
Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 

This heart, alas ! perverted long, 

Itself destroyed might there destroy; 

To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 

Tiien to the things whose bliss or woe, 
• Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 
Tliat world resign — such scenes forego. 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 

From what even here hath passed, may guess 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear. 
Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

'I'hough long and mournful must it be, 
The thought that we no more may meet ; 

Yet I deserve the stern decree, 

And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed to thine; 

It felt not half so much to part, 
As if its guilt had made thee mine. 

1813. 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.i 

When Thurlow this damned nonsense sent, 

(I hope I am not violent) 

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 

And since not even our Rogers' praise 

To common sense his thoughts could raise — 

Why would they let him print his lays ? 



To me divine Apollo, grant — O 1 
Hermilda's first and second canto, 
Fm fitting up a new portmanteau; 

And thus to furnish decent lining. 

My own and other's bays Fm twining — ■ 

So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 



1 [One evening, in 1813, Byron and Moore were 
ridiculing a volume of poetry which they chanced to 
take up at the house of Rogers. While their host 
was palliating faults and pointing out beauties, their 
mirth received a fresh impulse by the discovery of a 
piece, in which the author had loudly sung the praises 
of Rogers himself. " The opening line of the poem," 
says Moore, " was ' When Rogers o'er this l.^bor 
bent; ' and Lord Bvron undertook to read it aloud; 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

" I lay my branch of laurel down. 
Then thus to form Apollo's crown 
Let every other bring his own." 

Lord Thurlow' s lines to Mr. Rogrrs 

"/ lay my branch of lawel down!' 
Thou " lay thy branch of laurel down ! " 

Why, what thou'st stole is not enow; 
And, were it lawfully thine own, 

Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 
Keep to thyself thy withered bough, 

Or send it back to Doctor Donne : 
Were justice done to both, I trow. 

He'd have but little, and thou — none. 

" Then thus to form Apollo's crown" 
A crown ! why, twist it how you will. 
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town, 

Enquire amongst your fellow-lodgers, 
They'll tell you Phosbus gave his crown. 

Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 

"Let every other bring his otv7i." 
When coals to Newcastle are carried, 

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, 
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried, 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel. 

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, 

And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT 
TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN HORSEMONGER 
LANE GAOL, MAY 19, 1813. 

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom 

Brown, — 
For hang me if I know of which you may most 

brag, 
Your Quarto two-pounds, or vour Two-penny 
Post Bag ; 

***** 
But now to my letter — to yours 'tis an answer — 
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 
All ready and dressed for proceeding to spunge 

on 
(According to compact) the wit in the dun- 
geon — 



— but he found it impossible to get beyond the first 
two words. Our laughter had now increased to s.ich 
a pitch that nothing could restrain it, till even Mr. 
Rogers himself found it impossible not to join us. A 
day or two after, Lord Byron sent me the following : 
I My dear Moore, " When Rogers" must not see the 
inclosed, which I send for your perusal.' "] 



78 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Pray Phcebus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same 

palace ! 
I supf)ose that to-night you're engaged with 

some codgers, 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam 

Rogers ; 
And I, though with cold I have nearly my 

death got, 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the 

Heathcote, 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the 

Saifra, 
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.i 



IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A 
FRIEND. 

When, from the heart where Sorrow sits, 

Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 
And o'er the changing aspect flits, 

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye ; 
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 

My thoughts their dungeon know too well ; 
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, 

And droop within their silent cell.2 

September, 1813. 



SONNET, TO GENEVRA. 

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair. 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely 
wrought. 
Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its de- 
spair — 
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine 
air. 
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloyed and stainless 
thought — 
I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly 

care. 
With such an aspect, by his colors blent. 
When from his beauty-breathing pencil 
born, 
(Except that t/ioH hast nothing to repent) 



' [The reader who wishes to understand the full 
force of this scandalous insinuation is referred to 
Muretus's notes on a celebrated poem of Catullus, 
entitled In Ccesarem ; but consisting, in fact, of say. 
agely scornful abuse of the favorite Mmiiurra : — 
" Quis hoc potest videre ? quis potest pati, 
Nisi impudicus et vorax et helluo ? 
Mamurram habere quod comata (Jallia 
Habcbat unctum, et ultima Britannia ? " etc. — ] 
- [These verses are said to have dropped from the 
poet's pen to excuse a transient expression of melan- 
clioly which overclouded the general gaiety. — Sz'r 
Walter Scott.} 



The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 
Such seem'st thou — but how much more ex- 
cellent! 

With nought Remorse can claim — nor Vir- 
tue scorn. December 17, 1813.3 



SONNET, TO THE SAME. 

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from 
\\oe. 

And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 
My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh ! 

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 

And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airv bow. 
For, through thy long dark lashes low depend- 
ing, 

The soul of melancholy Gentleness 
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 

Aiiove all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 
At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 

I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 
December 17, 1813. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

" TU ME CHAMAS." 

In moments to delight devoted, 

" My life ! " with tenderest tone, you cry ; 
pear words ! on which my heart had doted, 

If youth could neither fade nor die. 

To death even hours like these must roll, 
Ah ! then repeat those accents never ; 

Or change " my life ! " into " my soul ! " 
Which, like my love, exists for ever. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

You call me still your life. — Oh ! change the 
word — 

Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh : 
Say rather I'm your soul ; more just that name. 

For, hke the soul, my love can never die. 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE; 

AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY.^ 

The Devil returned to hell by two, 
And he staid at home till five ; 



3 [" Read some Italian, and wrote two sonnets. I 
never wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not 
in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise — 
and I will never write another. They are the most 
puling, petrifying, stupidly Platonic compositions." 
— Byron's Diary, 1813.] 

* [" I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfin- 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



79 



When he dined on some homicides done in 
ragout. 

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, 
And sausages made of a self-slain ]e\v — 
And bethouglit himself what next to do, 

"And," quoth he, " I'll take a drive. 
I walked in the morning, I'll ride to-night; 
In darkness my children take most delight, 

And I'll see how my favorites thrive. 

"And what shall I ride in? " quoth Lucifer 
then — 

" If I followed my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men, 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be furnished again and again. 

And at present my purpose is speed ; 
To see my manor as much as I may, 
And watch that no souls shall be poached away. 

" I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour Place ; 
But they're lent to two friends, who make me 
amends 
By driving my favorite pace : 
And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something for both at the end of their 
race. 

" So now for the earth to take my chance." 
Then up to the earth sprung he ; 

And making a jump from Moscow to France, 
He stepped across the sea. 

And rested his hoof on a turnpike road. 

No very great way from a bishop's abode. 

But first as he flew, I forgot to say. 
That he hovered a moment upon his way 

To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare. 
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair. 

That he perched on a mountain of slain ; 
And he gazed with delight from its growing 

height. 
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight. 

Nor his work done half as well : 
For the field ran so red with the blood of the 
dead. 

That it blushed like the waves of hell ! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laughed he : 
" Methinks they have here little need of me! " 



ished rhapsody, called ' The Devil's Drive,' the 
notion of which I took from Person's ' Devil's 
Walk.' " — Byron's Diary, 1813. — " Of this 
strange, wild poem," says Moore, "the only copy 
that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he pre- 
sented to Lord Holland. Though with a good 
deal of vigor and imagination, it is, for the most 
part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point 
and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. 
Coleridge, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion 
long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Per- 
son."] The " Devil's Walk" is principally South- 
ey's. S«e Southey's Poems, vol. iii. 75. 



But the softest note that soothed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing ; 
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, 
Which horror froze in the l)lue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying — 
As round her fell her long fair hair ; 
And she looked to heaven with that frenzied 

air. 
Which seemed to ask if a God were there ! 
And, stretched by the wall of a ruined hut, 
W^ith its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 

A child of famine dying : 
And the carnage begun, when resistance is 
done. 

And the fall of the vainly flying. 

***** 

But the Devil has reached our chffs so white, 

And what did he there, I pray ? 
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day : 
But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal. 
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, 
Who bid pretty well — but they cheated him, 
though. 

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 

Its coachman and his coat ; 
So instead of a pistol he cocked his tail, 

And seized him by the throat : 
" Aha I " quoth he, " what have we here ? 
'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer ! " 

So he sat him on his box again, 

And bade him have no fear. 
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein, 

His brothel, and his beer; 
" Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 

I would rather see him here." 

***** 

The Devil gat next to Westminster, 

And he turned to " the room " of the Com- 
mons ; 

But he heard as he purposed to enter in there. 
That " the Lords " had received a summons ; 

And he thought, as a " quondam aristocrat," 

He might peep at the peers, though to hear 
them were flat ; 

And he walked up the house so like one of our 
own. 

That they say that he stood pretty near the 
throne. 

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise. 
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly. 

And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some 
size — 
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ; 

And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
Because the Catholics would not rise. 
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies; 

And he heard — which set Satan himself a 
Staring — 



so 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



A certain Chief Justice say something like 
swearing. 

And the Devil was shocked — and quoth he, 
" I must go, 

For I find we have much better manners be- 
low : 

If thus he harangues when he passes my 
border, 

I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to 
order." 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

LINES COMPOSED ON THE OCCASION OF HIS 
ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT 
BEING SEEN STANDING BETWEEN THE 
COFFINS OF HENRY VHI. AND CHARLES 
I., IN THE ROYAL VAULT AT WINDSOR. 

Famed for the contemptuous breach of sacred 

ties. 
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ; 
Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king: 

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
^- In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
justice and death have mixed their dust in vain. 
Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these dis- 
gorge 
The blood and dust of both — to mould a 
George. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

["I SPEAK NOT, I TRACE NOT," ETC.] 1 

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy 

name. 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in 

the fame ; 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek 

may impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence 

of heart. 

Too brief for our passion, too long for our 
peace 

Were those hours — can their joy or their bit- 
terness cease ? 

We repent — we abjure — we will break from 
our chain, — 

We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again ! 

Oh 1 thine be the gladness, and mine be the 
guilt! 



' [" Thou hnst asked me for a song, and I enclose 
you an ex;it riincnt, which lias cost me something 
more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be 
worth your taking any in your proposed setting. 
Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without 
phrase." — Byron to Moore, May lo, 1814.] 



Forgive me, adored one! — forsake, if thou 

wilt; — 
But the heart which is thine shall expire unde- 

based, 
And man shall not break it — whatever //z^w 

mayst. 

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, 
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be; 
And our days seem as swift, and our moments 

more sweet. 
With thee by mv side, than with worlds at our 

feet. 
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love. 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mme. 
May, 1814. 



ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RE- 
CITED AT THE CALEDONIA 
MEETING. 

Who hath not glowed above the page where 

fame 
Hathfixed high Caledon'sunconquered name; 
The mountain-land which spurned the Roman 

chain, 
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, 
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of 

hand 
No foe could tame — no tyrant could com- 

. mand ? 
That race is gone — but still their children 

breathe. 
And glory crowns them with redoubled wTcath : 
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine. 
And, England ! add their stubborn strength to 

thine. 
The blood which flowed with Wallace flows 

as free, 
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee ! 
Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claiin, 
But give support — the world hath given him 

fame. 

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mightv 

led — 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguished sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
To us bequeath — 'tis all their fate allows — 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze, 
Or view, whi-le shadowy auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding ])hantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm; 
While sad, she chants the solitary song. 
The soft lament for him who tarries long — 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



81 



For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave ! 

'Tis Heaven — not man — must charm away 

the woe 
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly 

flow; 
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
Of half its bitterness for one so dear ; 
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
A thornless pillow for the widowed head ; 
May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 
And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 
May, 1814. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO 
THOMAS MOORE. 

"What say If" — not a syllable further in 

prose ; 
I'm your man " of all measures," dear Tom, 

— so, here goes ! 
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old 

Time, 
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of 

rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink 

in the flood, 
We are smothered, at least, in respectable mud, 
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drowned in a 

heap. 
And Southey's last Paean has pillowed his 

sleep ; — 
That " Felo de se " who, half drunk with his 

malmsey. 
Walked out of his depth and was lost in a calm 

sea. 
Singing " Glory to God " in a spick and span 

stanza, 
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) 

never man saw. 

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the 

fusses, 
The fStes, and the gapings to get at these 

Russes, — 
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to 

Hetman, — 
And what dignity decks the flat face of the 

great man. 
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
For a prince, his demeanor was rather too 

hearty. 
You know, we are used to quite different 

graces. 

***** 

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and 

brisker. 
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; 
And wore but a star'ess blue coat, and in 

kersey- 



mere breeches whisked round, in a waltz with 

the Jersey, 
Who, Icvely as ever, seemed just as delighted 
With majesty's presence as those she invited. 



June, 1814. 



CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SA- 
RAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON 
THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURN- 
ING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE.J 

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
Whom servile Rome obeyed, and yet abhorred, 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
That left a likeness of the brave, or just; 
What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that decked that passing pageantry ? 
What spread from face to face that wondering 

air? 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there ! 
That absence proved his worth, — that absence 

fixed 
His memory on the longing mind, unmixed ; 
And more decreed his glory to endure, 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 
If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form,' in vain and mute amaze, 
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveli- 
ness, 
Bright though they be, thine own had r'^Q- 

dered less ; 
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits. 
If his corrupted eye, and withered heart. 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart ; 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 
What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; - - 
A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be. 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; 
And more on that recalled resemblance pause, 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine. 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 

^ [" The newspapers have got hold (I know not 
how) of the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on 
the picture-abduction by our Recent, and have pub- 
lished them — with my name, too, smack — without 
even asking leave, or inquiring whether or no ! D — n 
their impudence, and d — n every thing. It has put 
me out of patience, and so — I shall say no more 
about it." — Byron's Letiers.] 



8^ 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more 

than fair ! 
Each glance that wins us, and the life that 

throws 
A spell which will not let our looks repose, 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessened, these are still as bright. 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And those must wait till every charm is gone, 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none ; — 
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
In envious dimness passed thy portrait by; 
Who racked his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine. 
August, 1814. 



TO BELSHAZZAR. 

Belshazzar! from the banquet turn. 

Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ; 
Behold ! while yet before thee burn 

The graven words, the glowing wall, 
Many a despot men miscall 

Crowned and anointed from on high ; 
But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 

Is it not written, thou must die ? 

Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 

Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them ; 
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 

More than thy very diadem, 
Where thou hast tarnished every gem : — 

Then throw the Avorthless bauble by. 
Which, worn by thee, even slaves contemn. 

And learn like better men to die ! 

Oh ! early in the balance weighed. 

And ever light of word and worth. 
Whose soul expired ere youth decayed. 

And left thee but a mass of earth. 
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 

But tears in Hope's averted eye 
Lament that even thou hadst birth — 

Unfit to govern, live, or die. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH 
OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.i 

There is a tear for all that die, 

A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 

But nations swell the funeral cry, 
And Triumph weeps above the brave. 



1 [This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his 
twenty-ninth year, whilst commanding, on shore, a 
party from his ship, in the attack on the. American 
camp near Baltimore. He was Byron's first cousin; 
but they had never met since boyhood.] 



For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: 

In vain their bones unburied lie. 
All earth becomes their monument! 

A tomb is theirs on every page, 

An epitaph on every tongue : 
The present hours, the future age. 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hushed, their i7ame the only sound 

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not, 

Lamented by admiring foes. 
Who would not share their glorious lot ? 

Who would not die the death they chose ? 

And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 

And early valor, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts that bleed with thee 
In woe, that glory cannot quell; 

And shuddering hear of victory. 

Where one so dear, so daundess, fell. 

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 

When cease to hear thy cherished name ? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 

Alas ! for them, though not for thee. 

They cannot choose but weep the more ; 

Deep for the dead the grief must be, ' 
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 
October, 1814. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC.2 

[" THERE'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN 
GIVE," ETC.] 

" O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 

Gray's Poeviafa. 

THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that 

it takes away. 
When the glow of early thought declines in 

feeling's dull decay ; 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush 

alone, which fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere 

youth itself be past. 



2 These verses were given by Byron to Mr. Power, 
who published them, with beautiful music by Sir John 
Stevenson. ["I feel merry enough to send you a sad 
song. An event, the death of poor Dorset, and the 
recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



83 



Then the few whose spirits float above the 

wreck of happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean 

of excess : • 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only 

points in vain 
The shore to which their shivered sail shall 

never stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like 

death itself comes down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not 

dream its own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain 

of our tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis 

where the ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and 
mirth distract the breast, 

Through midnight hours that yield no more 
their former hope of rest ; 

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined tur- 
ret wTeathe, 

All green and wildly freslT without, but worn 
and gray beneath. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I 

have been. 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many 

a vanished scene ; 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all 

brackish though they be, 
So, midst the withered waste of life, those 

tears would flow to me.i 

March, 1815. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

[" THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S 
DAUGHTERS."] 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as ii its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing 
The waves lie still and gleaming. 
And the lulled winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep : 



now, but could uot — set me pondering, and finally 
into the train of thought which you have in your 
hands."] — Byron to Moore. 

* [" r)o you remember the lines I sent you early 
last year? I don't wi?h (like Mr. Fitzgerald) to 
claim the character of ' Vates,' in all its transla- 
tions, — but were they not a little prophetic ? I 
mean those beginning, ' There's not a joy the world 



So the spirit bows before thee, 
To listen and adore thee ; 
With a full but soft emotion. 
Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM 
ELBA. 

Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure, 
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his 

leisure. 
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes, 
Making balls for the ladies, and borvs to his foes. 
March 27, 1815. 



ODE FROM THE FRENCH. 

[" WE DO NOT CURSE THEE, WATERLOO ! "] 
I. 

We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 

Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew. 

There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 

Rising from each gory trunk. 

Like the water-spout from ocean, 

With a strong and growing motion — 

It soars, and mingles in the air. 

With that of lost Labedoyere — 

With that of him whose honored grave 

Contains the " bravest of the brave." 

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 

But shall return to whence it rose ; 

When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 

Never yet was heard such thunder 

As then shall shake the world with wonder — 

Never yet was seen such lightning 

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! 

Like the Wormwood Star foretold 

By the sainted Seer of old, 

Show'ring down a fiery flood. 

Turning rivers into blood.2 

II. 
The Chief has fallen, but not by you, 
Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 
When the soldier citizen 
Swayed not o'er his fellow-men — 
Save in deeds that led them on 
Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son — 

can give,' etc., on which I pique myself as being 
the truest, though the most melnncholy, I ever 
wrote." — Byron s Letters, March, 1816.] 

2 See Rev. chap. viii. v. 7, etc. " The first angel 
sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled 
with blood," etc. v. 8. " And the second ancel 
sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning 
with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part 
of the sea became blood," etc. v. 10. " And the 
third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from 



84 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Who, of all the despots banded, 
With that youthful chief competed ? 
Who could boast o'er France defeated, 

Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 

Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 

The Hero sunk into the King? 

Then he fell : — so perish all. 

Who would men by man enthrall ! 

III. 
And thou, too, of the snow-white plume ! 
Whose realm refused thee even a tomb ; i 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name ; 
Such as he of Naples wears. 
Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dashing 

On thy war-horse through the ranks 

Like a stream which burst its banks. 
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing. 
Shone and shivered fast around thee — 
Of the fate at last which found thee : 
Was that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
Once — as the Moon sways o'er the tide. 
It rolled in air, the warrior's guide ; 
Through the smoke-created night 
Of the black and sulphurous fight, 
The soldier raised his seeking eye 
To catch that crest's ascendency, ■ — 
And, as it onward rolling rose. 
So moved his heart upon our foes. 
There, where death's brief pang was quickest. 
And the battle's wreck lay thickest. 
Strewed beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her, 

Who could then her wing arrest — 

Victory beaming from her breast ?) 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
There be sure was Murat charging ! 

There he ne'er shall charge again ! 

IV. 
O'er glories gone the invaders march. 
Weeps Triumph o'er each levelled arch — 
But let Freedom rejoice, 



heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon 
the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains 
of waters." v. ii. "And the name of the star is 
called Wormwood : and the third part of the wa- 
ters became wortttzvood ; and many men died of 
the waters, because they were made bitter." 

1 [" Murat's remains are said to have been torn 
from the grave aijd burnt. Poor dear Murat, what 
an end ! His white plume used to be a rallying 
point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He re- 
cused a confessor and a bandage ; so would neither 
suffer his soul nor body to be bandaged." — Byron's 
Letters.^ 



With her heart in her voice ; 

But, her hand on her sword, 

Doubly shall she be adored; 

France hath twice too well been taught 

The " moral lesson " dearly bought — 

Her safety sits not on a throne. 

With Capet or Napoleon ! 

But in equal rights and laws. 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom, such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath his heaven. 

With their br^^ath, and from their birth. 

Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth; , 

With a fierce and lavish hand jl 

Scattering nations' wealth like sand ; * 

Pouring nations' blood like water. 

In imperial seas of slaughter ! 

V. 
But the heart and the mind. 
And the voice of mankind, 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union ? 
The time is past when swords subdued — 
Man may die — the soul's renewed : 
Even in this low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her for ever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble, 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
Smile they at this idle threat ? 
Crimson tears will follow yet.2 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

[" MUST THOU GO, MY GLORIOUS CHIEF ? "]3 



Must thou g , my glorious Chief, 

Severed from thy faithful few ? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief. 

Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal. 

Dear as both have been to me — 
What are they to all I feel. 

With a soldier's faith for thee ? 



2 [" Talking of politics, pray look at the conclu- 
sion of my ' Ode on Waterloo,' written in the year 
1815, and, comparing it with the Duke de Kern's 
catastrophe in 1820, tell me if I have not as good a 
right to the character of Tnies,' in both senses of 
the word, as Fitzgerald and Coleridge ? — 
' Crimson tears will follow yet; ' 
and have they not ? " — Byron's Letters, 1820.] 

2 " Ail wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish 
ofhcer who had been exulted from the ranks by Bona- 
parte. He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letter 
to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany 
him, even in the most menial capacity, which could 
not Ise admitted," 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



85 



II. 
Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

First in fight, but mightiest now : 
Many could a world control ; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

Death ; and envied those who fell, 
When their dying shout was heard, 

Blessing him they served so well.l 

III. 
Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see ; 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
Dreading each should set thee free ! 

Oh 1 although in dungeons pent, 
All their chains were light to me, 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

IV. 
Would the sycophants of him 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
Were his borrowed glories dim, 

In his native darkness share ? 
Were that world this hour his own, 

All thou calmly dost resign, 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine ? 



My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 

Never did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue, 

As his foes I now implore : 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave ; 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave^ 



ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION 
OF HONOR." 

[from the FRENCH,] 

Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 

Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 

Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 

Which millions rushed in arms to greet, — 

Wild metQor of immortal birth 1 

Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 

Souls of slain heroes formed thy rays ; 
Eternity flashed through thy blaze ; 



1 " At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left 
arm- was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it 
off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, ex- 
claimed to his comrades, ' Vive I'Empereur, jusqu' 
a la mort!' There were many other instances of 
the like: this yon may, however, depend on as true." 
— Private Letter from Brussels. 



The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honor here ; 
And thy light broke on human eyes, 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava rolled thy stream of blood, 
And swept down empires with its flood ; 
Earth rocked beneath thee to her base, 
As thou didst lighten through all space 
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue 

Of three bright colors,^ each divine, 

And fit for that celestial sign ; 

For Freedom's hand had blended them. 

Like tints in an immortal gem. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light : 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale. 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free I 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her array ; 
And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be 
For evermore with them or thee I 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 

[from the FRENCH.] 
I. 

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of 

my Glory 
Arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her 

name — 
She abandons me now — but the page of her 

story. 
The brightest or blackest, is filled with my 

fame. 
I have warred with a world which vanquished 

me only 
When the meteor of conquest allured me too 

far; 
I have coped with the nations which dread me 

thus lonely, 
The last single Captive to millions in war. 



2 The tricolor. 



86 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



II. 
Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem 

crowned me, 
I made thee the gem and the wonder of 

earth, — 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as 

I found thee. 
Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
In strife with the storm, when their battles were 

won — 
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment 

was blasted, 
Had still soared with eyes fixed on victory's 

sun ! 

III. 

Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty 

rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember me 

then, — 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy 

valleys ; 
Though withered, thy tear will unfold it 

again — 
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround 

us. 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my 

voice — 
There are links which must break in the 

chain that has bound us. 
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy 

choice ! 



ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF 
SEPARATION, IN THE APRIL OF 
1816. 

A YEAR ago you swore, fond she ! 

" To love, to honor," and so forth : 
Such was the vow you pledged to me, 

And here's exactly what 'tis worth. 



DARKNESS.i 

I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless 

air; 
Morn came and went — and came, and brought 

no day. 
And men forgot their passions in the dread 
Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light : 
And they did live by watchfires — and the 

thrones. 



^ [In the original MS. 



A Dream."] 



The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
The habitations of all things which dwell, 
Were burnt for beacons ; cities were con- 
sumed. 
And men were gathered round their blazing 

homes 
To look once more into each other's face ; 
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : 
A fearful hope was all the world contained ; 
Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
Extinguished with a crash — and all was black. 
The brows of men by the despairing light 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did 

rest 
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and 

smiled; 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up 
With mad disquietude on the dull sky. 
The pall of a past world ; and then again 
With curses cast them down upon the dust. 
And gnashed their teeth and howled : the wild 

birds shrieked. 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground. 
And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawled 
And twined themselves among the muUitud'e, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for 

food : 
And War, which for a moment was no more. 
Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 
W^ith blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
All earth was but one thought — and that was 

death, 
Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their 

flesh; 
The meagre by the meagre were devoured. 
Even dogs assailed their masters, all save one. 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famished men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no 

food. 
But with a piteous and peipetual moan. 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answered not with a caress — he died. 
The crowd was famished by degrees ; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive. 
And they were enemies : they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place 
Where had been heaped a mass of holy things 
For an unholy usage; they raked up. 
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton 

hands 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



87 



Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
ELach other's aspects — saw, and shrieked, and 

died — 
Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
Famine had written Fiend. The world was 

void, 
The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, life- 
less — 
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 
And nothing stirred within their silent depths ; 
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea. 
And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they 

dropped 
They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
The waves were dead ; the tides were in their 

grave. 
The Moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
The winds were withered in the stagnant air, 
And the clouds perished ; Darkness had no 

need 
Of aid from them — She was the Universe.! 

DiODATI, July, 1816. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE; 2 

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 

I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 
The comet of a season, and I saw 

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 
With not the less of sorrow and of awe 

On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 



1 [" Darkness " is a grand and gloomy sketch of 
the supposed consequences of the final extinction 
of the Sun and the heavenly bodies; executed, un- 
d)ubtedly, with great and fearful force, but with 
something of German exaggeration, and a fantas- 
tical solution of incidents. The very conception is 
terrible above all conception of known calamity, and 
is too oppressive to the imagination to be contem- 
plated with pleasure, even in the faint reflection of 
poetry. — 7eff*'ey-\ 

2 [On the sheet containing the original draught of 
these lines, Byron has written: — "The following 
poem (as most that I have endeavored to write) is 
foimded on a fact; and this detail is an attempt at a 
serious imitation of the style of a great poet — its 
beauties and its defects: I say, the style; for the 
thoughts I claim as my own. In this, if there be 
•any thing ridiculous, let it be attributed to me, at 

least as much as to Mr. Wordsworth; of whom there 
can exist few greater admirers than myself. I have 
blended what I \yould deem to be the beauties as 
well as defects, of his style; and it ought to be re- 
membered, that, in such things, whether there be 
praise or dispraise, there is always what is called a 
compliment, however unintentional."] 



With name no clearer than the names un- 
known. 
Which lay unread around it ; and I asked 

The Gardener of that ground, why it might 
be 
That for this plant strangers his memory tasked 

Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 
And thus he answered — " Well, I do not know 
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 
He died before my day of Sextonship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 
And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of Immortality? and crave 
I know not what of honor and of light 
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 
So soon, and so successless ? As I said, 
The Architect of ail on which we tread, 
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's 
thought, 

Were it not that all life must end in one. 
Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 
As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
Thus spoke he, — " I believe the man of whom 
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
Was a most famous writer in his day. 
And therefore travellers step from out their way 
To pay him honor, — and myself whate'er 

Your honor pleases," — then most pleased 
I shook 3 

From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
So much but inconveniently : — Ye smile, 
I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while. 
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
With a deep thought, and with a softened eye, 
On that Old Sexton's natural homily. 
In which there was Obscurity and Fame, — 
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name.-* 

DiODATI, 1816. 



2 [Originally — 

— = — " then most pleased, I shook 
My inmost pocket's most retired nook, 
And out fell five and sixpence."] 

* [The grave of Churchill might have called from 
Lord Byron a deeper conunemoration; for, though 
they generally differed in character and genius, there 
was a resemblance between their history and charac- 
ter. The satire of Churchill flowed with a more pro- 
fuse, though not a more embittered, stream; while, 
on the other hand, he cannot be compared to Lord 
Byron in point of tenderness or imagination. But 
both these poets held themselves above the opinion 
of the world, and both were followed by the fame 
and popularity which they seemed to despise. The 
writings of both exhibit an inborn, though some- 
times ill-regulated generosity of mind, and a spirit 
of proud independence, frequently pushed to ex- 
tremes. Both carried their hatred of hypocrisy be- 
yond the verge of prudence, and indulged their vein 



88 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



PROMETHEUS. 



I. 



Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality, 

Seen in their sad reality, 
Were not as things that gods despise ; 
What was thy pity's recompense ? 
A silent suifering, and intense ; 
1 he rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show, 
The suffocating sense of woe. 

Which speaks but in its loneliness. 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until his voice is echoless. 

II. 
Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will, 
Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
And the inexorable Heaven, 
And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
The ruling principle of Hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
The things it may annihilate, 
Refused thee even the boon to die : 
The wretched gift eternity 
Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
Was but the menace which flung back 
On him the torments of thy rack ; 
The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
But would not to appease him tell ; 
And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
And in his Soul a vain repentance. 
And evil dread so ill dissembled 
That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

III. 
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind. 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness. 
And strengthen Man with his own mind ; 
But baffled as thou vvert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy. 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 

A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To Mortals of their fate and force; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence : 



of satire to the borders of licentiousness. Both died 
in the flower of tlieir age in a foreign land. — Sir 
Walter Scott.] 



To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — and equal to all woes. 

And a firm will, and a deep sense 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concentred recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy. 
And making Death a Victory. 

DioDATi, July, 1816. 



A FRAGMENT. 

["COULD I REMOUNT," ETC.] 

Could I remount the river of my years 
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 
I would not trace again the stream of hours 
Between their outworn banks of withered flow- 
ers. 
But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
Into the number of the nameless tides. 



What is this Death ? — a quiet of the heart ? 
The whole of that of which we are a part ? 
For life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me. 
And being so — the absent are the dead. 
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if 

yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget. 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea; 
It may be both — but one day end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
Or have they their own language ? and a 

sense 
Of breathless being ? — darkened and intense 



As midnight in her solitude 



Oh Earth 1 



Where are the past ? — and wherefore had they 

birth ? 
The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave. 
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave, . 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold. 
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. 

Itc He * * * 

DioDATi, July. 1816. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



89 



SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. 

Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and 
De Stael — 
Leman ! i these names are worthy of thy 

shore, 
Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou 
no more, 
Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 
To them thy banks were lovely as to all. 
But they have made them lovelier, for the 

lore 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous ; but 
by thee 
How much more. Lake of Beauty ! do we feel. 

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea. 
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal. 

Which of the heirs of immortality 
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 
DiODATi, July, 1816. 



Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

[" BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL! "] 
I. 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control, 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
On earth thou wert all but divine, 

As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 



Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be ! 
There should not be the shadow of gloom. 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 
Young flowers and an evergreen tiee 

May spring from the spot of thy rest : 
But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 

For why should we mourn for the blest ? 



ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO 

DEL 

SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA. 
El qual dezia en Aravigo assz. 



Passeavase el Rey More 
Por la ciudad de Granada, 
Desde las puertas de Elvira 
Hasta las de Bivarambla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

XL 
Cartas le fueron venidas 
Que Alhama era ganada. 
Las cartas echo en el fuego, 

Y al mensagero matava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

IIL 
Descavalga de una mula, 

Y en un cavallo cavalga. 
Por el Zacatin arriba 
Subido se avia al Alhambra. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

IV. 
Como en el Alhambra estuvo, 
Al mismo punto mandava 



A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD i 

ON THE 

SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA. 

Which, in the Arabic language , is to the /allow- 
ing purport. 



The Moorish King rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

H. 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell : 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

in. 
He quits his mule, and mounts his horse. 
And through the street directs his course ; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



When the Alhambra walls he gained, 
On the moment he ordained 



^ The effect of the original ballad — which existed both in Spanish and Arabic- 
forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada. 



was such, that it was 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Que se toquen las trompetas 
Con anafiles de plata. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 



Y que atambores de guerra 
Apriessa toquen alarma ; 
Por que lo oygan sus Moros, 
Los de la Vega y Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



Los Moros que el son oyeron. 
Que al sangriento Marte llama, 
Uno a uno, y dos a dos, 
Un gran esquadron formavan. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

VII. 
AUi hablo un Moro viejo ; 
Desta manera hablava : — 
Par que nos llamas, Rey ? 
Para que es este llamada ? 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

VIII. 
Aveys de saber, amigos, 
Una nueva desdichada : 
Que Christianos, con braveza, 
Ya nos han tomado Alhama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

IX. 

Alii hablo un viejo Alfaqui, 
De barba crecida y cana : — 
Bien se te emplea, buen Rey, 
Buen Rey ; bien se te empleava. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



Mataste los 'Bencerrages, 
Que era la flor de Granada ; 
Cogiste los tornadizos 
De Cordova la nombrada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



Por esso mereces, Rey, 
Una pene bien doblada; 
Que te pierdas tu y el reyno, 
Y que se pierda Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 



Si no se respetan leyes, 
Es ley que todo se pierda; 

Y que se pierdas Granada, 

Y que te pierdas en ella. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

XIII. 
Fuego por los ojos vierte, 
El Rey que esto oyera. 



That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

V. 
And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain, 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recalled them there. 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
" Wherefore call on us, oh King? 
What may mean this gathering ? " 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

VIII. 
' Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow, 
That the Christians, stern and bold. 
Have. obtained Alhama's hold." 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

IX. 

Out then spake Old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see, 
" Good King ! thou art justly served, 
Good King 1 this thou hast deserved. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

X. 

' By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the Chivalry. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

XI. 

' And for this, oh King ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement : 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm. 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

XII. 
He who holds no laws in awe. 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won, 
And thyself with her undone." 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

XIII. 
Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes 
The Monarch's wrath began to rise, 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



91 



Y como el otro de leyes 
De leyes tambien hablava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 



Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes 
De darle a Reyes disgusto — 
Esso dize el Rey Moro 
Relinchando de colera. 

Av de mi, Alhama! 



Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
El de la vcllida barba. 
El Rey te manda prender, 
Por la perdida de Alhama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

XVI. 

Y cortarte la cabeza, 

Y ponerla en el Alhambra, 
Por que a ti castigo sea, 

Y otros tiemblen en miralla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

XVII. 

Cavalleros, hombres buenos, 
Dezid de mi parte al Rey, 
Al Rey Moro de Granada, 
Como no le devo nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama I 

XVIII. 

De averse Alhama perdido 
A mi me pesa en el alma. 
Que si el Rey perdio su tierra, 
Otro mucho mas perdiera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

XIX. 

Perdieran hijos padres, 

Y casados las casadas : 
Las cosas que mas amara 
Perdio I'un y el otro fama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

XX. 

Perdi una hija donzella 
Que era la fior d' esta tierra, 
Cien doblas dava por ella. 
No me las estimo en nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

XXI. 

Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, 
Le- cortaron la cabe9a, 

Y la elevan al Alhambra, 
Assi come el Rey lo manda. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

XXU. 
Hombres, ninos y mugeres, 
Lloran tan grande perdida. 



Because he answered, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

XIV. 

There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings : " — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish King, and doomed him dead 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 



Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be. 
The King hath sent to have thee seized. 
For Alhama's loss displeased. 

Woe is me, Alhama 



And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 

Woe is me. Alhama ! 



Cavalier, and man of worth I 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish Monarch know. 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Woe is me, Alhama 1 

XVIII. 
But on my soul Alhama weighs. 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the King his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

XIX. 
Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

XX. 

I lost a damsel in that hour, 
Of all the land the loveliest flower ; 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 
And think her ransom cheap that day." 
Woe is me, Alhama I 

XXI. 

And as these things the old Moor said. 
They severed from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
'Twas carried, as the King decreed. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

XXII. 
And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 



92 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Lloravan todas las damas 
Quantas en Granada avia. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

XXIII. 

Por las calles y ventanas 
Mucho luto parecia ; 
Llora el Rey como fembra, 
Qu' es mucho lo que perdia. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. 

PER MONACA. 

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui 
era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata, 
e diretto al genitore della sacra sposa. 

Dl due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte, 
Lieti e miseri padri il del ne feo, 
II del, che degne di piii nobil sorte 
L' una e 1' altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo. 

La mia fu tolta da veloce morte 
A le fumanti tede d' imeneo : 
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte 
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo. 

Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa 
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde, 
La sua tenera udir voce pietosa. 

lo verso un fiume d' amarissim' onde, 
Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa, 
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde. 



Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

XXIII. 

And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls ; 
The King weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. 

ON A NUN. 

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose 
daughter had recently died shortly after her mar- 
riage; and addressed to the father of her who had 
lately taken the veil. 

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, 

Heaven made us happy ; and now, wretched 
sires, 

Heaven for a nobler doom their worth de- 
sires, 

And gazing upon either, both required. 
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 

Becomes extinguished, soon — too soon — 
expires ; 

But thine, within the closing grate retired, 

Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 
But tkou at least from out the jealous door. 

Which shuts between your never-meeting 
eyes, 

May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once 
more; 
I to the marble, where my daughter lies, 

Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, 

And knock, and knock, and knock — but 
none replies. 



ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY 
CANOVA.i 

In this beloved marble view. 

Above the works and thoughts of man, 
What nature could, but would tiot, do, 

And beauty and Canova can/ 
Beyond imagination's power, 

Beyond the Bard's defeated art. 
With immortality her dower. 

Behold the Helen of the heart/ 



^ [" The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the 
house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says 
Byron, "without exception, to my mind, the most 
perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far be- 
yond my ideas of human execution. "] 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

;"THEY SAY THAT HOPE IS HAPPINESS."] 



They say that Hope is happiness ; 

But genuine Love must prize the past. 
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless ; 

They rose the first — they set the last; 

II. 

And all that Memory loves the most 
Was once our only Hope to be, 

And all that Hope adored and lost 
Hath melted into Memory. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



93 



Alas! it is delusion all : 

The future cheats us from afar, 
Nor can we be what we recall, 

Nor dare we think on what we are. 



SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. 
I. 
As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with 
blood. 
So we, boys, we 
Will die fighting, or live free, 
And down with all kings but King Ludd ! 



When the web that we weave is complete, 
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 

We will fling the winding sheet 

O'er the despot at our feet, 
And dye it deep in the gore he has poured. 

III. 
Though black as his heart its hue, 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud. 

Yet this is the dew 
Which the tree shall renew 
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd ! 

December, 1816. 



VERSICLES.l 

I READ the " Christabel ; " 

Very well : 
I read the " Missionary ; " 

Pretty — very: 
I tried at " Ilderim ; " 

Ahem ! 
I read a sheet of " Marg'ret oi Anjou ; " 

Can you f 
I turned a page of Scott's " Waterloo ; ' 

Pooh ! pooh ! 
I looked at Wordsworth's milk-white 
stone Doe ; " 

Hillo! 

Etc., etc., etc. 

March, : 



Ryl- 



' [ " I have been ill with a slow fever, which at 
last took to flying, and became as quick as need be. 
But, at length, after a week of half delirium, burning 
skin, thirst, hot headache, horrible pulsation, and no 
sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and refusing 
to see my physician, I recovered. It is an epi- 
demic of the place. Here are some versicles, which 
I made one sleepless night. " — Byron's Letters. 
Venice, March, 1817.] 

2[The'* Missionary," was written by Mr. Bowles; 
"Ilderim" by Mr. Gaily Knight; and "Margaret 
of Anjou" by Miss Holford.] 



SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING. 

I. 
So we'll go no more a roving 

So late into the night. 
Though the heart be still as loving. 

And the moon be still as bright. 

II. 
For the sword outwears its sheath, 

And the soul wears out the breast, 
And the heart must pause to breathe, 

And love itself have rest. 



Though the night was made for loving, 
And the day returns too soon. 

Yet we'll go no more a roving 

By the light of the moon. 1817. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

What are you doing now, 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
What are you doing now. 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
Sighing or suing now. 
Rhyming or wooing now, 
Billing or cooing now. 
Which, Thomas Moore ? 

But the Carnival's coming. 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 
The Carnival's coming. 
Oh Thomas Moore ! 
Masking and humming. 
Fifing and drumming, 
Guitarring and strumming, 
Oh Thomas Moore ! 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
Have published " Anjou's Margaret," 
Which won't be sold off in a hurry 
(At least, it has not been as yet) ; 
And then, still further to bewilder 'em. 
Without remorse you set up " Ilderim ; " 

So minji you don't get into debt, 
Because as how, if you should fail, 
These books would be but baddish bail. 

And mind you do not let escape 

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
Which would be very treacherous — very. 

And get me into such a scrape ! 
For, firstly, I should have to sally. 
All in my little boat, against a Galley; 



94 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian 

wight, 
Have next to combat with the female knight. 
March 25, 1817. 



TO TfiOMAS MOORE. 
I. 
My boat is on the shore. 

And my bark is on the sea; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee ! 

II. 
Here's a sigh to those who love me. 

And a smile to those who hate ; 
And, whatever sky's above me. 

Here's a heart for every fate. 



Though the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it still shall bear me on ; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 



Were't the last drop in the well, 
As I gasped upon the brink. 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 



With that water, as this wine, 
The libation I would pour 

Should be — peace to thine and mine, 
And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
July 



1817. 



EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO 
DR. POLIDORI.i 

Dear Doctor, I have read your play, 
Which is a good one in its way, — 
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels. 
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
With tears, that, in a flux of grief, 
Afford hysterical relief 
To shattered nerves and quickened pulses, 
Which your catastrophe convulses. 



1 [" I never," says Byron, " was much more dis- 
gusted with any human production than with the 
eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, 
and ill-humor, and vanity of this young person; but 
he has some talent, and is a man of honor, and has 
dispositions of amendment. Therefore use your in- 
terest for him, for he is improved and improvable. 
You want a ' civil and delicate declension ' for the 
medical tragedy ? Take it. " — Byron to Mr. Mur- 
ray, August 21, 1817.] 



I like your moral and machinery; 
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery ; 
Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
The play's concoction full of art; 
Your hero raves, your heroine cries, 
All stab, and every body dies. 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to hear and see : 
And for a piece of publication, 
If I decline on this occasion. 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible. 
But — and I grieve to speak it — plays 
Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-days. 
I had a heavy loss by " Manuel," — 
Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
And Sotheby, with his " Orestes," 
(Which, by the by, the author's best is,) 
Has lain so very long on hand 
That I despair of all demand. 
I've advertised, but see my books. 
Or only watch my shopman's looks ; — 
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber. 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 

There's Byron too, who once did better, 
Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
A sort of — it's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama; 
So altered since last year his pen is, 
I think he's lost his wits at Venice. 
In short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
I dare not venture on another. 
I write in haste ; excuse each blunder; 
The coaches through the streets so thunder 1 
My room's so full — we've Gifford here 
Reading MS., with Hookham Frere, 
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 

The Quarterly — Ah, sir, if you 
Had but the genius to review ! — 
A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 
Short compass what — but, to resume : 
As I was saying, "sir, the room — 
The room's so full of wits and bards, 
Crabbes, Campbells, Crockers, Freres, and 

Wards 
And others, neither bards nor wits : — 
My humble tenement admits 
All persons in the dress of gent.. 
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent 

A party dines with me to-day. 
All clever men, who make their w*ay ; 
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
Are all partakers of my pantry. 
They're at this moment in discussion 
On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance — 
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of P>ance ! 
Thus run our time and tongues away. — 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



95 



But, to return, sir, to your play : 
Sorry, sir, but I can not deal, 
Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill. 
My hands so full, my head so busy, 
I'm almost dead, and always dizzy; 
And so, with endless truth and hurry, 
Dear Doctor, 1 am yours, 

John Murray. 



EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY. 

My dear Mr. Murray, 
You're in a damned hurry 

To set up this uhimate Canto ;i 
But (if they don't rob us) 
You'll see Mr. Hobhouse 

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 

For the Journal you hint of. 
As ready to print off, 

No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
But as yet I have writ off 
The devil a bit of 

Our " Beppo : " — when copied, I'll send it. 

Then you've * * * 's Tour, — 
No great things, to be sure, — 

You could hardly begin with a less work ; 
Fnr the pompous rascallion. 
Who don't speak Italian 

Nor French, must have scribbled by guess- 
work. 

You can make any loss up 
With " Spence " and his gossip, 

A work which must surely succeed ; 
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
With the new " Fytte " of " Whistlecraft," 

Must make people purchase and read. 

Then you've General Gordon, 
Who girded his sword on. 

To serve with a Muscovite master, 
And help him to polish 
A nation so owlish. 

They thought shaving their beards a dis- 
aster. 

For the man, "poor and shrewd," 2 
With whom you'd conclude 

A compact without more delay, 
Perhaps some such pen is 
Still extant in Venice ; 

But please, sir, to TC\.&Vi'i\QV\. your pay. 

Venice, January 8, i8i8. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times. 
Patron and publisher of rhymes, 



1 [The fourth Canto of " Childe Harold."] 

2 Vide your letter. 



For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
My Nlurray. 

To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
Thou printest all — and sellest some — 
My Murray. 

Upon thy table's baize so green 
The last new Quarterly is seen, — 
But where is thy new Magazine, 
My Murray ? 

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
The works thou deemest most divine — • 
The " Art of Cookery," and mine. 
My Murray. 

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist. 
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist : 
And then thou hast the " Navy List," 
My Murray. 

And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without "the Board of Longitude," 
Although this narrow paper would, 
My Murray ! 
Venice, March 25, 1818. 



ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WIL- 
LIAM RIZZO HOPPNER. 

His father's sense, his mother's grace, 
In him, I hope, will always fit so ; 

With — still to keep him in good case — 
The health and appetite of Rizzo.^ 



STANZAS TO THE PO. 

[About the middle of April, 1819, Byron travelled 
from Venice to Ravenna, at which last city he ex- 
pected to find the Countess Guiccioli. The following 
stanzas, which have been as much admired as any 
of the kind he ever wrote, were composed, according 
to Madame Guiccioli's statement, during this jour- 
ney, and while Byron was actually sailing on the Po. 
In transmitting them to England, in May, 1820, he 
says, — "They must not be published: pray recol- 
lect this, as they are mere verses of society, and 
written upon private feelings and passions." They 
were first printed in 1824.] 



3 [On the birth of this child, the son of the British 
vice-consul at Venice, Byron wrote these lines. 
They are in no other respect remarkable, than that 
they were thought worthy of being metrically trans- 
lated into no less than ten different languages; 
namely, Greek, Latin, Italian (also in the Venetian 
dialect), German, French, Spanish, Illyrian, He- 
brew, Armenian, and Samaritan. The original lines, 
with the different versions above mentioned, were 
printed, in a small neat volume, in the seminary of 
Padua.] 



9b 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



River, that rollest by the ancient walls.i 
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 

Walks by thy brink, and there perchance re- 
calls 
A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 

II. 

What if thy deep and ample stream should be 

A mirrow of my heart, where she may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee. 

Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy 

speed ! 

III. 
What do I say — a mirror of my heart ? 
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and 
strong ? 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 
And such as thou art were my passions long. 

IV. 
Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not 
for ever ; 
Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river 1 
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk 
away. 

V. 
But left long wrecks behind, and now again. 
Borne in our old unchanged career, we 
move ; 
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main. 
And I — to loving one I should not love. . 

VI. 
The current I behold will sweep beneath 

Her native walls and murmur at her feet ; 
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall 
breathe 
The twilight air, unharmed by summer's 
heat. 

VII. 
She will look on thee, — I have looked on thee. 
Full of that thought ; and from that moment, 
ne'er 
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see. 
Without the inseparable sigh for her ! 

VIII. 

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, — 
Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 

Mine cannot witness, even in a dream. 
That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 

IX. 

The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
Will she return by whom that wave shall 
sweep ? — 



[Ravenna — a city to which Byron afterwards 



Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy 
shore, 
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 



But that which keepeth us apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of 
earth. 

But the distraction of a various lot. 
As various as the climates of our birth. 

XI. 

A stranger loves the lady of the land. 

Born far beyond the mountains, but his 
blood 

Is all meridian, as if never fanned 
By the black wind that chills the polar flood. 

XII. 

My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
I had not left my clime, nor should I be, 

In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot, 
A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 

XIII. 

'Tis vain to struggle — let me perish youngs 
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung. 
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be 
moved. April, 1819. 



EPIGRAM. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES. 

If, for silver or for gold. 

You could melt ten thousand pimples 

Into half a dozen dimples, 
Then your face we might behold. 

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly ; 

Yet even t/ien 'twould be d d ugly. 

August 12, 1819. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD 
FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE. 

To be the father of the fatherless. 

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, 
and raise 

His offspring, who expired in other days 
To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 
T/iis is to be a monarch, and repress 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such 
traits, 



declared himself more attached than to any other 
place, except Greece. He resided in it rather more 
than two years.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



97 



For who would lift a hand, except to bless ? 
Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet 
To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
Omnipotent by mercy's means ? for thus 
Thy sovereignty would grow but more com- 
plete, 
A despot thou, and yet thy people free, 
And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 
Bologna, August 12, 1819.1 



STANZAS.2 

["COULD LOVE FOREVER."] 
I. 

Could Love forever 
Run like a river, 
And Time's endeavor 

Be tried in vain — 
No other pleasure 
With this could measure ; 
And like a treasure 

We'd hug the chain. 
But since our sighing 
Ends not in dying, 
And, formed for flying. 

Love plumes his wing; 
Then for this reason 
Let's love a season ; 
But let that season be only Spring. 

II. 
When lovers parted 
Feel broken-hearted, 
And, all hopes thwarted, 

Expect to die ; 
A few years older, 
Ah ! how much colder 
They might behold her 

For whom they sigh ! 
When linked together, 
In every weather. 
They pluck Love's feather 

From out his wing — 



' [" So the prince has been repealing i^ord Fitz- 
gerald's forfeiture ? Ecco un' sonetto ? There, you 
dogs ! there's a sonnet for you : you wont have such 
as that in a hurry from Fitzgerald. You may pub- 
lish it with my name, an' ye wool. He deserves all 
praise, bad and good : it was a very noble piece of 
principality." — Byron to Mr. Miirray.'\ 

2 [A friend of Byron's, who was with him at Ra- 
venna when he wrote these stanzas, says, — " They 
were composed, like many others, with no view of 
publication, but merely to relieve himself in a mo- 
ment of suffering. He had been painfully e.\cited 
by some circumstances which appeared to make it 
necessary that he should immediately quit Italy; 
and in the day and the hour that he wrote the song 
was laboring under an access of fever."] 



He'll stay forever. 
But sadly shiver 
Without his plumage, when past the Spring.* 

III. 
Like Chiefs of Faction, 
His life is actior^ — 
A formal paction 

That curbs his reign, 
Obscures his glory. 
Despot no more, he 
Such territory 

Quits with disdain. 
Still, still advancing, 
With banners glancing, 
His power enhancing. 

He must move on — 
Repose but cloys him, ^ 
Retreat destroys him. 
Love brooks not a degraded throne. 

IV. 

Wait not, fond lover ! 
Till years are over. 
And then recover. 

As from a dream. 
While each bewailing 
The other's failing. 
With wrath and railing. 

All hideous seem — 
While first decreasing, 
Yet not quite ceasing. 
Wait not till teasing 

All passion blight : 
If once diminished 
Love's reign is finished — 
Then part in friendship, — and bid good 
night.4 

V. 
So shall Affection 
To recollection 
The dear connection 

Bring back with joy : 
You had not waited 
Till, tired or hated. 
Your passions sated 

Began to cloy. 
Your last embraces 
Leave no cold traces — 
The same fond faces 

As through the past ; 
And eyes, the mirrors 
Of your sweet errors, 
Reflect but rapture — not least though last. 



True, separations 

Ask more than patience 



3 [V. L. — " That sped his Spring."] 
* [V. L. — " One last embrace, then, and bid good- 
night." 



98 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



What desperations 
From such have risen ! 

But yet remaining, 

What is't but chaining 

Hearts which, once waning, 
Beat "gainst their prison ? 

Time can but cloy love, 

And use destroy love : 

The winged boy. Love, 
Is but for boys — 

You'll find it torture 

Though sharper, shorter, 
To wean, and not wear out your joys. 



1819. 



ON MY WEDDING DAY. 

Here's a happy new year ! but with reason 
I beg you'll permit me to say — 

Wish me mayiy returns of the season, 
But as few as you please of the day. 

January 2, 1820. 



EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. 

With death doomed to grapple 
Beneath this cold slab, he 

Who lied in the Chapel 
Now lies in the Abbey. 

January, 1820. 



EPIGRAM. 

In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, 
Will. Cobbett has done well : 

You visit him on earth again. 
He'll visit you in hell. 

January, 1820. 



STANZAS. 

When a man hath no freedom to fight for at 

home, 

Let him combat for that of his neighbors ; 

Let him think of the glories of Greece and of 

Rome, 

And get knocked on the head for his labors. 

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 
And is always as nobly requited ; 

Then battle for freedom wherever you can. 
And, if not shot or hanged, you'll get 
knighted. November, 1820. 

EPIGRAM. 

The world is a bundle of hay. 
Mankind are the asses who pull ; 

Each tugs it a different way. 
And the greatest of all is John Bull. 



THE CHARITY BALL. 

What matter the pangs of a husband and 
father. 
If his sorrows in exile be great or be small. 
So the Pharisee's glories around her she 
gather. 
And the saint patronizes her " charity ball I " 
What matters — a heart which, though faulty, 
was feeling. 
Be driven to excesses which once could ap- 
pall- 
That the sinner should suffer is only fair deal- 
ing. 
As the saint keeps her charity back for " the 
ball ! " 1 



EPIGRAM, 

ON THE BRAZIERS' COMPANY HAVING RE- 
SOLVED TO PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO 
QUEEN CAROLINE.^ 

The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
An address, and present it themselves all in 

brass ; — 
A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord 

Harry ! 
They'll find where they're going much more 

than they carry .3 



EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING DAY. 

TO PENELOPE. 

This day, of all our days, ha3 done 
The worse for me and you : — 

'Tis just six years since we were one, 
And Jive since we were two. 

January 2, 1821. 



ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 

JANUARY 22, 182I.4 

Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty, 
I have dragged to three and thirty. 
What have these years left to me ? 
Nothing — except thirty-three. 



1 These lines were wriuen on reading in the news- 
papers, that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball 
in aid of some charity at Hinckley. 

2 [The procession of the Braziers to Brandenburgh 
House was one of the fooleries of the time of Queen 
Caroline's trial.] 

3 [There is an epigram for you, is it not ? — worthy 
Of Wordsworth, the grand metaquizzical poet, 

A man of vast merit, though few people know it; 
The perusal of whom (as I told you at Mestri) 
I owe, in great part, to my passion for pastry." 

Byro7i's Letters, January 22, 1821.] 
< [In Byron's MS. Diary of the preceding day, 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



99 



MARTIAL, Lib. I. Epig. I. 

Hie est, quern legis, tile, quern requt'rts. 
Tola tiotiis in orbe Mariialis, etc. 

He unto whom thou art so partial, 

Oh, reader ! is the well-known Martial, 

The Epigrammatist : while living, 

Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving; 

So shall he hear, and feel, and know it — 

Post-obits rarely reach a poet. 



NEW DUET 
To the tune of " Why, how now, saucy jade ? " 

Why, how now, saucy Tom ? 

If you thus must ramble, 
I will publish some 

Remarks on Mister Campbell. 

ANSWER. 

Why, how now, Billy Bowles ? 

Sure the priest is maudlin 1 
( To the public) How can you, d — n your souls, 

Listen to his twaddling' ? 

February 22, 182 1. 



EPIGRAMS. 

Oh, Castlereagh ! thou art a patriot now ; 
Cato died for his country, so didst thou : 
He perished rather than see Rome enslaved. 
Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be 
saved ; 

So Castlereagh has cut his throat! — The 

worst 
Of this is, — that his own was not the first. 



So He has cut his throat at last! — He! 

Who? 
The man who cut his country's long ago. 



EPITAPH. 

Posterity will ne'er survey 
A nobler grave than this : 

Here lie the bones of Castlereagh 
Stop, traveller 



the following entry: — " To-morrow is my birth-day 
— that is to say, at twelve o' the clock, midnight; 
i.e. in twelve minutes, I shall have completed thirty 
and three years of age ! ! I — and I go to my bed with 
a heaviness of heart at having hved so long, and to 
so little purpose. * * * * * 

It is three minutes past twelve — ' 'Tis the middle 
of night by the castlc-clock,' and I am now thirty- 
three!— 



JOHN KEATS. 1 

Who killed John Keats ? 

" I, " says the Quarterly, 
So savage and Tartar ly ; 

" 'Twas one of my feats." 

Who shot the arrow ? 

" The poet priest Milman 
(So ready to kill man), 

" Or Southey, or Barrow." 

July, 182*. 



THE CONQUEST. 

[This fragment was found amongst Byron's pa 
pers, after his departure from Genoa for Greecfc. j 
March 8-9, 1823. 

The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing ; 
Him who bade England bow to Nor- 
mandy, 
And left the name of conqueror more than 
king 
To his unconquerable dynasty. 
Not fanned alone by Victory's fleeting wing, 
He reared his bold and brilliant throne on 
high : 
The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast. 
And Britain's bravest victor was the last. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

For Orford 2 and for Waldegrave 3 
You give much more than me you gave ; 
Which is not fairly to behave, 
My Murray. 

Because if a live dog, 'tis said, 
Be worth a Hon fairly sped, 
A live lord must be worth two dead, 
My Murray. 

And if, as the opinion goes, 
Verse hath a better sale than prose — 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
My Murray. 



' Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, 
Labuntur anni; ' — 
but I don't regret them so much for what I have 
done, as for what I might have done."] 

1 [It was pretended at the time, that the death of 
Keats was occasioned by a sarcastic article on his 
poetry in the Quarterly Review. All the world 
knows now that he died of consumption, and not of 
criticism.] 

2 [Horace Walpole's Memoirs of the last nine 
Years of the Reign of George II.] 

3 [Memoirs by James Enr! Waldegrave, Got 
jrrjor of George III. when Prince of Wales.] 



100 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



But now this sheet is nearly crammed, 
So, \iyoii will, I shan't be shammed. 
And if you won t, you may be damned, 
My Murray .1 



THE IRISH AVATAR. 

" And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneel- 
ing to receive the paltry rider." — CuRRAN. 

I. 

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her 
grave, 
And her ashes still float to their home o'er 
the tide, 
Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the 
wave, 
To the long-cherished isle which he loved 
like his — bride. 

II. 
True, the great of her bright and brief era are 
gone. 
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom 
could pause 
For the few little years, out of centuries won. 
Which betrayed not, or crushed not, or wept 
not her cause. 

III. 
True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his 
rags, 
The castle still stands, and the senate's no 
more, 
And the famine which dwelt on her freedom- 
less crags 
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

IV. 
To her desolate shore — where the emigrant 
stands 
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his 
hearth ; 
Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from 
his hands. 
For the dungeon he quits is the place of. 
his birth. 

V. 
But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 
Liks a goodly Leviathan rolled from the 
waves ! 



1 [" Can't accept your courteous offer. These 
matters must be arranged with Mr. Douglas Kin- 
naird. He is my trustee, and a man of honor. To 
him you can state all your mercantile reasons, which 
you might not like to state to me personally, such 
as ' heavy season ' — ' flat public ' — ' don't go off' — 
' lordship writes too much ' — ' won't take advice ' — 
' declining popularity ' — ' deduction for the trade ' 
— ' make very little ' — ' generally lose by him ' — 
' pirated edition ' — ' foreign edition ' — ' severe criti- 
cisms,' etc., with other hints and howls for an ora- 
tion which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to 
answer." — Byron to Mr. Murray ] 



Then receive him as best such an advent be- 
comes. 
With a legion of cooks, and an army of 



slaves ! 



VI. 



He comes in the promise and bloom of three- 
score, 
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's 
part — 
But long live the shamrock which shadows him 
o'er! 
Could the green in his hat be transferred to 
his heart! 

VII. 

Could that long-withered spot but be verdant 
again. 
And a new spring of noble affections 
arise — 
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in 
thy chain, 
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens 
the skies. 

VIII. 
Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee 
now ? 
Were he God — as he is but the commonest 
clay. 
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his 
brow — 
Such servile devotion might shame him 
awav. 

IX. 

Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — 

Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
His soul o'er the freedom implored and de- 
nied. 

X. 

Ever glorious Grattan ! the * best of the 
good! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest ! 
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, 

And his rival or victor in all he possessed. 

XI. 

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, 
Though unequalled, preceded, the task was 
begun — 
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the 
tomb 
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the otie! 

XII. 
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the 
brute : 
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle man- 
kind ; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, 
And Corruption shrunk scorched Irom the 
glance of his mind. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



101 



XIII. 

But back to our theme ! Back to despots and 
slaves ! 
Feasts furnished by Famine ! rejoicings by 
Pain ; 
True freedom but welcome s,v^\{\\q. slavery still 
raves, 
When a week's saturnalia hath loosened her 
chain. 

XIV. 

Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can 
afford 
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would 
hide) 
Gild over the palace, Lo ! Erin, thy lord ! 
Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings 
denied ! 

XV. 

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last. 

If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, 
Must what terror or policy wring forth be 
classed 
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as 
wolves yield their prey? 

XVI. 

Each brute hath its nature, a king is to reign, — 
To reign ! in that word see, ye ages, com- 
prised 
The cause of the curses all annals contain, 
From Caesar the dreaded to George the de- 
spised ! 

XVII. 

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, pro- 
claim 
His accomplishments! His!!! and thy 
country convince 
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame. 
And that " Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest 
young ■^xvcvQ.Q ! " 

XVIII. 

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal , recall 
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ? 
Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with 
hymns ? 

XIX. 

Ay! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give 
his mite ! 
Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath 
arisen ! 
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance 
unite — 
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and 
prison ! 

XX. 

Spread — spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast. 
Till the gluttonous despot be stuffed to the 
gorge ! 



And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him 
at last 
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors 
called " George ! " 



Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they 
groan ! 
Till i\\(ty groan like thy people, through ages 
of woe ! 
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's 
throne. 
Like their blood which has flowed, and 
which yet has to flow. 

XXII. 
But let not fiis name be thine idol alone — 

On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears ! 
Thine own Castlereagh ! let him still be thine 
own ! 
A wretch, never named but with curses and 
jeers ! 

XXIII. 

Till now, when the isle which should blush for 
his birth, 
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on 
her soil, 
Seems proud of the reptile which crawled 
from her earth, 
And for murder repays him with shouts 
and a smile ! 

XXIV. 

Without one single ray of her genius, without 
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her 
race — 
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin 
in doubt 
If slie ever gave birth to a being so base. 

XXV. 

If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be 
hushed. 
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile 
can spring — 
See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full 
flushed, 
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king 1 

XXVI. 

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh ! Ei-in. 
how low 
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, 
till 
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee 
below 
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 

XXVII. 

My voice, though but humble, was raised for 
thy right, 
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, 



102 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy 
fight. 
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb 
still for thee / 

XXVIII. 

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art 
not my land, 
I have known noble hearts and great souls 
in thy sons. 
And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band 
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer 
as once. 

XXIX. 

For happy are they now reposing afar, — 

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 
Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent 
war, 
And redeemed, if they have not retarded, 
thy fall. 

XXX. 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English 
graves 1 
Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of 
to-day — 
Nor the steps of enslavers, and chain-kissing 
slaves 
Be stamped in the turf o'er their fetterless 
clay. 

XXXI. 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, 
Though their virtues were hunted, their lib- 
erties fled ; 
There was something so warm and sublime in 
the core 
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy 
dead. 

XXXII. 

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an 
hour 
My contempt for a nation so servile, though 
sore, 
Which though trod like the worm will not turn 
upon power, 
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of 
Moore ! 1 



STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD 
BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. 



Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; 
The days of our youth are the days of our 
glory ; 



^ ['* The enclosed lines, as you will directly per- 
ceive, are written by the Rev. W. L. Bowles. Of 
course it is for kiftt to deny them, if they are not." 
— Lord B, to Mr. Moore, September 17, 1821.] 



And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and- 

twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so 

plenty. 

II. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow 
that is wrinkled ? 

'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew be- 
sprinkled. 

Then away with all such from the head that 
is hoary ! 

What care I for the wreaths that can only give 
glory ? 

III. 

Oh Fame! — if I e'er took delight in thy 

praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding 

phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one 

discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love 

her. 

IV. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found 
thee; 

Her glance was the best of the rays that sur- 
round thee ; 

When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright 
in my story, 

I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory .2 



STANZAS 



TO A HINDOO AIR. 



be- j 



[These verses were written by Byron a little 
fore he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to 
suit the Hindostanee air — "Alia Malla Punca," 
which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing.] 

Oh ! — my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
Where is my lover ? where is my lover ? 
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams dis- 
cover ? 
Far — far away ! and alone along the billow ? 

Oh ! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow I 
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow 

lay? 
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 
And my head droops over thee like the wil- 
low. — 

Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from 
breaking ; 



2 [" I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, 
added now) a few days ago, on the road from Flor- 
ence to Pi.sa." — Byron's Diary, Pisa, 6th Novem- 
ber, 1821.] 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



103 



In return for the tears I shed upon thee 
waking, 

Let me not die till he comes back o'er the bil- 
low. — 

Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely 

Pillow, 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold 

him. 
And then expire of the joy — but to behold 

him ! 
Oh ! my lone bosom ! — oh ! my lonely Pillow ! 



IMPROMPTU.i 

Beneath Blessington's eyes 
The Reclaimed Paradise 

Should be free as the former from evil; 
But if the new Eve 
For an Apple should grieve, 

What mortal would not play the Devil ? 2 

1823. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESS- 
INGTON. 

You have asked for a verse : — the request 
In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny ; 

But my Hippocrene was but my breast. 
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 

Were I now as I was, I had sung 
What Lawrence has painted so well ; 

But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
And the theme is too soft for my shell. 

I am ashes where once I was fire. 
And the bard in my bosom is dead ; 

What I loved I now merely admire. 
And my heart is as gray as my head. 

My Hfe is not dated by years — 

There are moments which act as a plough 
And there is not a furrow appears 

But is deep in my soul as my brow. 

Let the young and brilliant aspire 
To sing what I gaze on in vain ; 

For sorrow has torn from my lyre 

The string which was worthy the strain. 



[This impromptu was uttered by Byron on going 
with Lord and Lady Blessington to a villa at Genoa 
called "// Pa ra^z'i'f'," which his companions thought 
of renting.] 

2 [The Genoese v/its had already applied this 
threadbare jest to himself. Taking it into their 
heads that this villa had been the one fixed on for 
his ovQ residence, they said, '* II Diavolo e ancora 
entra'o in Paradise." — Moore.^ 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY 
THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. 

MissOLONGHi, Jar/ary 22, 1824.' 

I. 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move : 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 

n. 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

III. 
The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile ! 

IV. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 



But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor 

710W, 

Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

VI. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see 1 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
Was not more free. 

VII. 
Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

VIII. 
Tread those reviving passions down. 
Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 



3 [This morning Lord Byron came from his bed- 
room into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope 
and some friends were assembled, and said with a 
smile — "You were complaining, the other day, 
that I never write any poetry now. This is my 
birth-day, and I have just finished something which, 
I think, is better than what I usually write." He 
then produced these noble and affecting verses.— 
Count Gamda.] 



104 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

IX. 
If thou regret'st thy youth, 7vhy live ? 

The land of honorable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

X. 

Seek out — less often sought than found - 
A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 



Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest.i 



^ [Taking into consideration every thing con- 
nected with these verses, — the last tender aspira- 
tions of a loving spirit which they breathe, the self- 
devotion to a noble cause which they so nobly ex- 
press, and that consciousness of a near grave glim- 
mering sadly through the whole, — tliere is perhaps 
no production within the range of mere human com- 
position, round which the circumstance; and feelings 
under wliich it was written cast so touching an inter- 
est. — Moore. '\ 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 

A SATIRE. 



" I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew! 
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." 

Shakespeare. 

" Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true. 
There are as mad, abandoned critics too." 

Pope. 



[The first edition of this satire, which then began with what is now the ninety-seventh line (" Time was, 
ere yet," etc.), appeared in Marcii, 1809. A second, to which the author prefixed his name, followed in 
October of that year; and a third and fourth were called for during his first pilgrimage, in i8io and iSii . 
On his return to England, a fifth edition was prepared for the press by himself, with considerable care, 
but suppressed, and, except one copy, destroyed, when on the eve of publication. The text is now printed 
from the copy that escaped; on casually meeting with which, in 1816, he reperused the whole, and wrote 
on the margin some annotations, which in this edition are distinguished by the insertion of their date, froai 
those affixed to the prior editions. 

The first of these MS. notes of 1816 appears on the fly-leaf, and runs thus: — " The binding of this 
volume is considerably too valuable for the contents; and nothing but the consideration of its being the 
property of another, prevents me from consigning this miserable record of misplaced anger and indis- 
criminate acrimony to the flames."] 



PREFACE. 1 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I 
were to be " turned from the career of my humor by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I 
should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, 
with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally, who did not commence on 
the offensive. An author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his 
opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavored to commemorate may do by me as I have done 
by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. 
But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better. 

As the poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavored in this edition to make 
some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal. 

1 This preface was written for the second edition, and printed with it. The noble author had left this 
country previous to the publication of that edition, and is not yet returned. — Note to the fourth edi- 
tion, 1811.— [ "He is, and gone again." — Byron, 1816.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



105 



In the first edition of this satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's 
Pope were written by, and inserted at the request of, an ingenious friend of mine,' who has now in the 
press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in 
their stead; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in 
the same manner, — a determination not to publish with my name any production, which was not entirely 
and exclusively my own composition. 

With- regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or 
alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion 
in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom 
his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and 
without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers 
here censured renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at 
worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can 
wish more than the author that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr. 
Gifford has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a country practi- 
tioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to prevent the extension 
of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic 
is here offered ; as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients 
afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. — As to the Edinburgh ^eview- 
ers,3 it would indeed require an Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds in merely 
" bruising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will 
be amply satisfied.* 

1 [Mr. Hobhouse.] 

2 'Here the preface to the first edition commenced.] 

3 ['• I well recollect the effect which the critique of the Edinburgh Reviewers, on my first poem, had 
upon me — it was rage and resistance, and redress, but not despondency nor despair. A savage review 
is hemlock to a sucking author, and the one on me (which produced the English Bards, etc.) knocked 
me down — but I got up again. That critique was a master-piece of low wit, a tissue of scurrilous abuse. 
I remember there was a great deal of vulgar trash, about people being 'thankful for what they could 
get,' — 'not looking a gift horse in the mouth,' and such stable expressions. But so far from their bully- 
ing me, or deterring me from writing, I was bent on falsifying their raven predictions, and determined to 
show them, croak as they would, that it was not the last time they should hear from me." — Byron, 1821.] 

* [" The severity of the criticism," Sir Egerton Brydges has observed, " touched Lord Byron in the 
point where his original strength lay : it wounded his pride, and roused his bitter indignation. He pub- 
lished ' English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' and bowed down those who had hitherto held a despotic 
victory over the public mind. There was, after all, more in the boldness of the enterprise, in the fear- 
lessness of the attack, than in its intrinsic force. But the moral effect of the gallantry of the assault, 
and of the justice of the cause, made it victorious and triumphant. This was one of those lucky devel- 
opments which cannot often occur; and which fixed Lord Byron's fame. From that day he engaged the 
public notice as a writer of undoubted talent and energy both of intellect and temper."] 



Still must I hear ?i — shall hoarse Fitz- 
gerald 2 bawl 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 3 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my 
muse? 



^ Imit. "Semper ego auditor tantum? nun- 

quamne reponam, 

Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri?" 

Jtiv. Sat. I. 

"^ \^' Hoarse Fitzgerald." — "Right enough; 

but why notice such a mountebank." — Byron, 

1816.] 

3 Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett 
the " Small Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute 



Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or 

wrong : 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 

Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose- 
quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 

of verse on the Literary Fund: not content with 
writing, he spouts in person, after the company 
have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, 
to enable them to sustain the operation. — [For 
the long period of thirty-two years, this harmless 
poetaster was an attendant at the anniversary din- 
ners of the Literary Fund, and constantly honored 
the occasion with an ode, which he himself recited 
with most comical dignity of emphasis.] 



106 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS, 



Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen ! foredoomed to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labor, big with verse or prose, 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise 1 
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite. 
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own special pen! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
Our task complete, like Hamet's i shall be free ; 
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me : 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distempered dream ^ 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is 

plain ; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sovereign 
s-^ay, 
Obeyed by all who nought beside obey ; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all pre- 
vail, 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers. 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears. 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe. 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit 1 but not belong 
To me the an-ows of satiric song ; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 
And yield at least amusement in the race : 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small. 
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme, 
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame ; 
I printed — older children do the same. 
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; 
A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician 

name 
Failed to preserve the spurious farce from 

shame. 3 



1 Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his 
pen, in the last chapter of Don Quixote. Oh ! that 
our voluminous gentry would follow the example 
of Cid Hamet Benengeli. 

^ [" This must have been written in the spirit of 
prophecy." — Byron, i8i6.] 

3 This ingenious youth is mentioned more par- 
ticularly, with his production, in another place. 



No matter, George continues still to write,* 
Though now the name is veiled from public 

sight. 
Moved by the great example, I pursue 
The self-same road, but make my own review : 
Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to every trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet. 
His pay is just ten sterhng pounds per sheet : 
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caressed. 

And shall we own such judgment ? no — as 
soon 
Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn m chaff; 
Believe a woman or an epitaph. 
Or any other thing that's false, before 
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore ; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.5 
To these young tyrants,*' by themselves mis- 
placed. 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe. 
And hail theirvoice as truth, their word as law — ■ 
While these are censors, 'twould be sin to 

spare ; 
While such are critics, why should I forbear ? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; , 
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,., 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

Then should you ask me, 7 why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before ; 

* In the Edinburgh Review. — ["He's a very 
good fellow, and, except his mother and sister, the 
best of the set, to my mind." — Byron, i8i6.] 

s Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the alpha and 
omega, the first and last of the Edinburgh Review; 
the others are mentioned hereafter. 

[" This was not just. Neither the heart nor the 
head of these gentlemen are at all what they are 
here represented. At the time this was written, I 
was personally unacquainted with either." — Byron^ 
i8i6.] 

'' I MIT. " Stulta est Clementia, cum tot ubique 

occurras periturse parcere chartse." 

Jnv. Sat. I. 

7 Imit. " Cur tamen hoc libeat potius decurrere 

campo 

Per quem magnus equos Auruncae flexit 

alumnus: 
Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, 
edam." Juv. Sat. L 



ENGLISH BAkDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



107 



If not yet sickened, you can still proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
" But hold ! " exclaims a friend, — " here's some 

neglect : 
This — that — and t'other line seem incorrect." 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has 

got, 
And careless Dryden — "Ay, but Pye has 

not': " — 
Indeed ! — 'tis granted, faith ! — but what care 

I? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate daysi 
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise. 
When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
No fatiled graces, flourished side by side ; 
From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
And, reared by taste, bloomed fairer as they 

grew. 

Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in 

vain ; 

A polished nation's praise aspired to claim, 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden poured the tide of song, 



1 [The first edition of the Satire opened with this 
ine, and Byron's original intention was to prefix 
the following — 

*' Argument. 

' The poet considereth times past, and their po- 
esy — makes a sudden transition to times present — 
is incensed against bookmakers — revileth Walter 
Scott for cupidity and ballad-mongering, with nota- 
ble remarks on Master Soulhey — complaineth that 
Master Southey hath inflicted three poems, epic 
and otherwise, on the public — inveigheth against 
William Wordsworth, but laudeth Mister Coleridge 
and his elegy on a young ass — is disposed to vitu- 
perate Mr. Lewis — and greatly rebuketh Thomas 
Little (the late) and the Lord Strangford — recom- 
mendeth Mr. Hayley to turn .his attention to prose 
— and exhorteth the Moravians to glorify Mr. 

Grahame — sympathizeth with the Reverend 

Bowles — and deploretli the melancholy fate of 
James Montgomeiy — breaketh out into invective 
against the Edinburgh Reviewers — calleth them 
hard names, harpies and the like — apostrophizeth i 
Jeffrey, and prophesieth. — Episode of Jeffrey and 
Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance; portents 
nn the morn of the combat; the Tweed, Tolbooth, 
Frith of Forth, severally shocked; descent of a 
godless to save Jeffrey; incorporation of the bul- 
lets with his sinciput and occiput. — Edinburgh 
Reviewers en vtnsse. — Lord Aberdeen, Herbert, 
Scalt, Hallam, Pillans, Lambe, Sydney Smith, 
Brougham, etc. — The Lord Holland applauded for 
dinners and translations. — The Drama; Skeffing- 
ton, Ho-)k, Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry, etc. — 
Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon to 
tvrite. — Return to poesy — scribblers of all sorts — 
lords sometimes rhyme; much better not — Hafiz, 
Rosa Matilda, and X. Y. Z. — Rogers, Campbell, 
•iflford, etc., true poets — Translators of the Greek 
A.nthology — Crabbe — Darwin's style — Cambridge 

Seatonian Prize — Smy the — Hodgson — Oxford 

Richards — Poeta loquitur — Conclusion."] 



In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly 

strong. 
Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Ot- 

way's melt — 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast. 
When taste and reason with those times are 

past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
This truth at least let satire's self allow, 
No dearth of bards can be complained of now.''^ 
The loaded press beneath her labor groans, 
And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
While Southey's epics cram the creaking 

shelves. 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves. 
Thus saith the preacher : " Nought beneath 

the sun 
Is new; " yet still from change to change we 

run : 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass. 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare. 
Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! 
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise. 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail ; 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne. 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 3 
Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not, 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling 

Stott.4 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling 
crew. 



"^ [" One of my notions is, that the present is not 
a high age of English poetry. There are more po- 
ets (soi-disant) than ever there were, and propor- 
tionably less poetry. This thesis I have maintained 
for some years; but, strange to say, it meeteth not 
with favor from my brethren of the shell." — By- 
roti's Diary, 1821.J 

3 [" With regard to poetry in general, I am con- 
vinced that we are all upon a wrong revolutionary 
poetical system, not worth a damn in itself, and 
from which none but Rogers and Crabbe are free. 
I am the more confirmed in this by having lately 
gone over some of our classics, particularly Pope, 
whom I tried in this way : — I took Moore's poems, 
and my own, and some others, and went over them 
side by side with Pope's, and I was really aston- 
ished and mortified at the ineffable distance, in 
point of sense, learning, effect, and even imagina- 
tion, passion, and invention, between the little 
Queen Anne's man, and us of^ the Lower Empire. 
Depend upon it, it is all Horace then, and Claudian 
now, among us: and if I had tri begin again, I 
would mould myself accordingly." — Byron's Di- 
ary, 1817.] 

* Stott, better known in the " Morning Post" by 
the name of Hafiz. This personage is at present 



108 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



For notice eager, pass in long review : 

Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 

And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 

Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 

And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 

Immeasurable measures move along; 

For simpering folly loves a varied song, 

To strange mysterious dulness still the friend. 

Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 

Thus Lays of Minstrels i — may they be the 

last ! — 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to th*" 

blast. 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood. 
Decoy young border-nobles though the wood. 
And skip at every step. Lord knows how high, 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows 

why; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell. 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell. 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave. 
And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 



the most profound explorer of the bathos. I re- 
member, when the reigning family left Portugal, a 
special ode of Master Stott's beginning thus: — 
Stott loquitur quoad Hibeniia. — 

" Princely offspring of Braganza, 
Erin greets thee with a stanza," etc. 
Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, 
and a most thundering Ode, commencing as fol- 
lows: — 

" Oh ! for a Lay ! loud as the surge 
That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." 
Lord have mercy on us! the "Lay of the Last 
Minstrel " was nothing to this. 

1 See the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," /«jjz';«. 
Never was any plan so incongruous and absurd as 
the groundwork of this production. The entrance 
of Thunder aiid Lightning, prologuizing to Bayes' 
tragedy unforvunately takes away the merit of orig- 
inality from the dialogue between Messieurs the 
Spirits of Flood and Fell in the first canto. Then 
we have the amiable William of Deloraine, "a 
stark moss-trooper," videlicet, a happy compound 
of poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The 
propriety of his magical lady's injunction not to 
read can only be equalled by his candid acknowl- 
edgment of his independence of the trammels of 
spelling, although, to use his own elegant phrase, 
" 'twas his neck-verse at Harribee," i.e. the gal- 
lows. — The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the 
marvellous pedestrian page, who travelled twice as 
fast as his master's horse, without the aid of seven- 
leagued boots, are chefs-d'oeuvre in the improve- 
ment of taste. For incident we have the invisible, 
but by no means sparing box on the ear bestowed on 
the page, and the entrance of a knight and charger 
into the casde, under the very natural disguise of a 
wain of hay. Marmion, the hero of the latter ro- 
mance, is exactly what Williap of Deloraine would 
have been, had he been able to read and write. The 
poem was manufactured for Messrs. Constable, 
Murray, and Miller, worshipful booksellers, in con- 
sideration of the receipt of a sum of money ; and 



Next view in state, proud prancing on his 

roan. 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight. 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight. 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And thinkest thou, Scott ! 2 by vain conceit 

perchance 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
"o yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
No 1 when the sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
Who rack their brains for lucre,3 not for fame ; 
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain ! 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son. 
And bid a long "good night to Marmion." ■* 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits 

. now; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must 

bow; 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallowed bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was 
young. 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 



truly, considering the inspiration, it is a very cred- 
itable production. If Mr. Scott will write for hire, 
let him do his best for his paymasters, but not dis- 
grace his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a 
repetition of black-letter ballad imitations. 

2 [" When Byron wrote his famous satire, I had 
my share of flagellation among my betters. My 
crime was having written a poem for a thousand 
pounds; which was no otherwise true, than that I 
sold the copyright for that sum. Now, not to men- 
tion that an author can hardly be censured for ac- 
cepting such a sum as the booksellers are willing to 
give him, especially as the gentlemen of the trade 
made no complaints of their bargain, I thought the 
interference with my private affairs was rather be- 
yond the limits of literary satire. I was, however, 
so far from having anything to do with the offen- 
sive criticism in the Edinburgh, that I remonstrated 
against it with the editor, because I thought the 
" Hours of Idleness" treated with undue severity. 
They were written, like all juvenile poetry, rather 
from the recollection of what had pleased the author 
in others, than what had been suggested by his own 
imagination; but, nevertheless, I thought they con- 
tained passages of noble promise." — Sir Walter 
Scott.] 

3 [Byron set out with the determination never to 
receive money for his writings. This notion, how- 
ever, he soon got rid of.] 

* "Good night to Marmion" — the pathetic and 
also prophetic exclamation of Henry Blount, Es- 
quire, on the death of honest Marmion. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



109 



While awe-struck nations hailed the magic 

name ; 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years. 1 
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth, 
Tongues have expired with those who gave 

them birth 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards content. 
On one great work a life of labor spent : 
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies. 
Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield. 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the 

field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
The scourge of England and the boast of 

France 1 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,2 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son ; ^ 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome, 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face. 
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race ! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence. 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense! 
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his 

sails, 

Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales ; 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do. 
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 
Oh, Southey ! Southey ! 4 cease thy varied 

song! 
A bard mav chant too often and too lonsr : 



As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the 
;tory of the Iliad, they may almost be classed as 
Dne grand historical poem. In alluding to Milton 
ind Tasso, we consider the " Paradise Lost," and 
Gierusalemme Liberata," as their standard ef- 
"orts; since neither the "Jerusalem Conquered" 
if the Italian, nor the " Paradise Regained" of the 
English bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to 
.heir former poems. Query: whichof Mr. Southey's 
A'ill survive ? 

" Thalaba," Mr. Southey's second poem, is 
vritten in open defiance of precedent and poetry. 
Mr. S. wished to produce something novel, and 
iucceeded to a miracle. "Jean of Arc" was mar- 
<'ellous enough, but "Thalaba" was one of those 
)oems " which," in the words of Porson, " will be 
ead when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but — 
lot till tlieny 

[" Of Thalaba, the wild and wondrous song." — 
Southey's Madoc. ^ 

* We beg Mr. Southey's pardon : " Madoc dis- 
lains the degraded tide of epic." See his preface. 



As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say. 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; 
If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil, 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,5 
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 
" God help thee," Southey ,c and thy readers 
too." 

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule. 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favorite May ,8 
Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and 

trouble, , 

And quit his books, for fear of growing 

double: "9 



Why is epic degraded? and by whom? Certainly 
the late romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, 
Ogilvy, Hoole, and gentle Mistress Cowley, have 
not exalted tiie epic muse; but as Mr. Southey's 
poem " disdains the appellation," allow us to ask 
— has he substituted any thing better in its stead? 
or must he be content to rival Sir Richard Black- 
more in the quantity as well as quality of his verse? 

5 See " The old women of Berkley," a ballad, by 
Mr. Southey, wherein an aged gentlewoman is 
carried away by Beelzebub, on a "high-trotting 
horse." 

" The last line, " God help thee," is an evident pla- 
giarism from the Anti-Jacobin to Mr. Southey, on his 
Dactylics. — [Byron here alludes to Gifford's parody 
on Southey's Dactylics, which ends thus: — 
"Ne'er talk of ears again! look at thy spelling- 
book; 

Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy quan- 
tities — 

Dactylics, call'st thou 'em ? — ' God help thee, silly 
one.' "] 

■^ [Byron on being introduced to Southey in 1813, 
at Holland House, describes him, "as the best 
looking bard he had seen for a long time." — " To 
have that poet's head and shoulders, I would," he 
says, "almost have written his Sapphics. He is 
certainly a prepossessing person to look on, and a 
man of talent, and all that, and there is his eulogy." 
In his Journal, of the same year, he says — 
"Southey I have not seen much of. His appear- 
ance is epic, and he is the only existing entire man 
of letters. All the others have some pursuit an- 
nexed to their authorship. His manners are mild, 
but not those of a man of the world, and his talents 
of the first order. His prose is perfect. Of his 
poetry there are various opinions: there is, per- 
haps, too much of it for the present generation — 
posterity will probably select. He has passages 
equal to any thing. At present, he has ?i party, but 
no public — except for his prose writings. His Life 
of Nelson is beautiful." Elsewhere and later, Byron 
pronounces Southey's Don Roderick, " the first 
poem of our time."] 

8 [" Unjust:' — Byron, 1816.] 

^ Lyrical Ballads, p. 4. — " The Tables Turned.' 
Stanza i. 

•' Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks; 



no 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; • 
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of " an idiot boy ; " 
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, 
And, like his bard, confounded night with 

day ; 1 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
And each adventure so sublimely tells. 
That all who view the " idiot in his glory," 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
Though themes of innocence amuse him best. 
Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a pixy for a muse,2 
Yet Hone in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
So well the subject suits his noble mind. 
He brays.s the laureat of the long-eared kind.4 

Oh ! wonderworking Lewis !5 monk,orbard. 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church- 
yard 1 



Why all this toil and trouble? 
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, 
Or surely you'll grow double." 
' Mr. W. in his preface labors hard to prove, that 
prose and verse are much the same; and certainly 
his precepts and practice are strictly conformable: — 
"And thus to Betty's questions he 

Made answer, like a traveller bold. 
The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo, 
And the sun did shine so cold," etc. etc., 
p. 129. 

2 Coleridge's Poems, p. 11, Songs of the Pixies, 
i.e. Devonshire fairies; p. 42, we have, *' Lines to 
a young Lady: " and, p. 52, " Lines to a young 
Ass." 

3 [Thus altered by Byron, in his last revision of 
the satire. In all former editions the line stood, 

" A fellow-feeling makes us wond'rous kind."] 
* [" Unjust" says Byron in 1816. — In a letter 
to Coleridge, written in 1815, he says, — "You 
mention my ' Satire,' lampoon, or whatever you 
or others please to call it. I can only say, that it 
was written when I was very young and very angry, 
; nd has been a thorn in my side ever since : more 
particularly as almost all the persons animadverted 
upon became subsequently my acquaintances, and 
some of them my friends; which is 'heaping fire 
upon an enemy's head,' and forgiving me too read- 
ily to permit me to forgive myself. The part ap- 
plied to you is pert, and petulant, and shallow 
enough; but, although I have long done every thing 
in my power to suppress the circulation of the 
whole thing, I shall always regret the wantonness 
or generality of many of its attempted attacks."] 
^ [Matthew Gregory Lewis, M. P. for Hindon, 



Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow. 
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou takest thy 

stand, 
By gibbering spectres hailed, thy kindred 

band ; 
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, 
To please the females of our modest age ; 
All hail, M. P. ! 6 from whose infernal brain 
Thin sheeted phantoms ghde, a grisly train ; 
At whose command " grim women " throng in 

crowds, 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds. 
With "small grey men," "wild yagers," and 

what not, 
To crown with honor thee and W^alter Scott ; 
Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to 

dwell. 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 



never distinguished himself in Parliament, but, 
mainly in consequence of the clever use lie made of 
his knowledge of the German language, then a rare 
accomplishment, attracted much notice in the liter- 
ary world, at a very early period of his life. His 
Tales of Terror; the drama of the Casile Spectre; 
and the romance called the Bravo of Venice (which 
is, however, little more than a version from the 
Swiss Zschokke) ; but above all, the libidinous and 
impious novel of The Monk, invested the name of 
Lewis with an extraordinary degree of celebrity, 
during the poor period which intervened between 
the obscuration of Cowper, and the full display of 
Sir Walter Scott's talents in the " Lay of the Last 
Minstrel," — a period which is sufficiently character- 
ized by the fact that Hayley then passed for a Poet. 
Next to that solemn coxcomb, Lewis was for sev- 
eral years the fashionable versifier of his time; but 
his plagiarisms, perhaps more audacious than had 
ever before been resorted to by a man of real talents, 
were by degrees unveiled, and writers of greater 
original genius, as well as of purer taste and mor- 
als, successively emerging. Monk Lewis, dying 
young, had already outlived his reputation. In 
society he was to the last a favorite; and Byron, 
who had become well acquainted with him during 
his experience of London life, thus notices his 
death, which occurred at sea in 1818: — "Lewis 
was a good man, a clever man, but a bore. My 
only revenge or consolation used to be setting him 
by the ears with some vivacious person who hated 
bores especially, — Madame de Stael or Hobhouse, 
for example. But I liked Lewis; he was the jewel 
of a man, had he been better set; — 1 don't mean 
perso7tally, but less tiresovie, for he was tedious, 
as well as contradictory to every thing and every 
body. Poor fellow ! he died a martyr to his nevr 
riches — of a second visit to Jamaica: — 

" I'd give the lands of Deloraine, 
Dark Musgrave were alive again! " 
That is, — 

" I would give many a sugar cane. 
Mat Lewis were alive again! "] 
<^ " For every one knows, little Matt's an M. P." — 
See a poem to Mr. Lewis, in " The Statesman," sup- 
posed to be written by Mr. Jekyll. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Ill 



Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion 

flushed. 
Strikes liis wild lyre, whilst listening dames are 

hushed ? 
'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day. 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
Grieved to condemn,^ the muse must still be 

just. 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns ; 
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er. 
She bids thee "mend 'thy line, and sin no 

more." 



Of 



For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of 

blue,^ 
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue 
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss ad- 
mires. 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's 

sense. 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence, 
Thmk'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 
By dressing Camoens3 in a suit of lacfe? 
Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy 
taste ; ^ 

Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste • 
Cease to deceive ; thy pilfered harp restore 
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore.' 

Behold!— ye tarts! one moment spare the 
text — 
Hayley's last work, and worst — until his next • 
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays 
Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise' 
His style in youth or age is still the same ' 
For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs " 

shine ; 
At least I'm sure they triumphed over mine 



i[In very early. life, "Little's Poems" were 
Byron s favorite study. "Heigho! " he exclaims 
in 1820 ma letter to Moore, " I believe all the 
mischief 1 have ever done or sung has been owing 
to that confounded book of yours."] 

2 The reader, who may wish for an explanation 
ot this may refer to " Strangford's Camoens," p. 
127, note to p. 56 or to the last page of the Edin- 
burgh Review of Strangford's Camoens. [Lord 
btrangford, after declaring " auburn locks and eves 
of blue ' to be " the essence of loveliness," and in- 
dicative of the most amiable disposition and the 
warmest heart, proceeded to intimate that he was 
personally possessed of all these advantages.] 

s It is also to be remarked, that the things given 
to the public as poems of Camoens are no more to 
be *ound in the original Portuguese, than in the 
oong ot bolomon. 



"Music's Triumphs," all who read may 
swear 
That luckless music never triumphed there.4 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull devotion— Lo ! the Sabbath bard, 
Sepulchral Grahame,^ pours his notes subli'me 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme ; 
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms. 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the 
Psalms. 

Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings 6 
A thousand visions of a thousand things, 
And shows, still whimpering through three- 
score of years. 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
And art thou not their prince, harmonious 

Bowles ! 
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? 
VVhether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief. 
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; 
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford 
bells,7 

* Hayley's two most notorious verse productions 
are " Triumphs of Temper," and " The triumph 
of Music." He has also written much comedy 
in rhyme, epistles, etc. etc. As he is rather an 
elegant writer of notes and biography, let us rec- 
ommend Pope's advice to VVycherley' to Mr. H.'s 
consideration, namely, " to convert his poetry 
into prose," which may be easily done by taking 
away the final syllable of each couplet. 

s Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of 
cant, under the name of " Sabbath Walks " and 
"Biblical Pictures."— [This amiable man, and 
pleasing poet, began life as an advocate at the Ed- 
inburgh bar, where he had little success, and being 
of a melancholy and devout temperament, entered 
into holy orders, and died in 1811.] 

« [In the MS. immediately before this line, we 
find the following, which Byron omitted, at the re- 
quest of Mr. Dallas, who was, no doubt, a friend of 
the scribbler they referred to : — 

" In verse most stale, unprofitable, flat — 
Come, let us change the scene, and '^ glean* 

with Pratt; 
In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
Condemned to make the books which once he 

.sold : 
Degraded man! again resume thy trade — 
"The votaries of the Muse are ill repaid. 
Though daily puffs once more invite to' buy 
A new edition of thy ' Sympathy.' " 
To which this note was appended: — " Mr. Pratt 
once a Bath book.seller, now a London author, has 
written as much, to as little purpose, as any of 
his scribbling contemporaries. Mr. P.'s 'Sympa- 
thy' is m rhyme; but his prose productions are 
the most voluminous." The more popular of these 
last were entitled " Gleanings."] 

^ See Bowles's " Sonnet to Oxford," and " Stan- 
zas on hearing the Bells of Ostend." 



112 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 
Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap. 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song, 
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! 
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears. 
Ere miss as yet completes her infant years : 
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain ; 
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," i 
Such as none heard before, or will again ! 
Where all Discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud. 
By more or less, are sung in every book, 
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road, 
The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ; ^ 
And gravely tells — attend, — each beauteous 

miss ! — 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell. 
Stick to thy sonnets, man ! — at least they sell. 
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe. 
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a 

scribe ; 
If chance some bard, though once by dunces 

feared. 
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, 
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst. 
Do thou essay : each fault, each failing scan ; 
The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 
Rake from each ancient dunghill every pearl. 
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll ; 3 



^ " Awake a louder," etc., is the first line in 
Bowles's "Spirit of Discovery;" a ver^ spirited 
and pretty dwarf-epic. Among other exquisite lines 
we have the following: — 

" A kiss 
Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 
Here heard ; they trembled even as if the power," 
etc. etc. 
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss; 
very much astonished, as well they might be, at 
such a phenomenon. — [" Misquoted and misun- 
derstood by me; but not intentionally. It was not 
the " woods," but the people in them who trembled 
— why, Heaven only knows — unless they were 
overheard making the prodigious smack." — Byron, 
1816.] 

2 The episode above alluded to is the story of 
" Robert a Machin " and " Anna d' Arfet," a pair 
of constant lovers, who performed the kiss above 
mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. 

3 Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and 
was a bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name 
of Lord Hervey, author of *' Lines to the Imitator 
of Horace." 



Let all the scandals of a former age 
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 
Affect a candor which thou canst not feel, 
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 
And do from hate what Mallet ■* did for hire. 
Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time. 
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to 

rhyme ; 5 
Thronged with the rest around his living head, 
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead ; 6 
A meet reward had crowned thy glorious gains, 
And linked thee to the Dunciad for thy pains/ 

Another epic ! Who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
And sends his goods to market — all alive 1 
Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 
Fresh fish from Helicon I '^ who'll buy ? who'll 

buy ? 
The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 
Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat. 
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the 

brain. 
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
In him an author's luckless lot behold. 
Condemned to make the books which once 

he sold. 
Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus I what a name 
To fill the speaking trump of future fame ! — 

•* Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope 
after his decease, because the poet had retained 
some copies of a work by Lord Bolingbroke — the 
"Patriot King," — which that splendid, but ma- 
lignant, genius had ordered to be destroyed. — 
[" Bolingbroke's thirst of vengeance," says Dr. 
Johnson, " incited him to blast the memory of the i 
man over whom he had wept in his last struggles; | 
and he employed ALillet, another friend of Pope, to 
tell the tale to the public, with all its aggravations."] 

5 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. — 
" Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia hoift'ls, 

Making night hideous: answer him, ye owls! " 

Dunciad. 

(5 See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for 
which he received three hundred pounds. Thus 
Mr. B. has experienced how much easier it is to 
profit by the reputation of another, than to eleva'e 
his own. 

" [Byron's MS. note of 1816 on this passage is, 
— "Too savage all this on Bowles:" and well 
might he say so. For in spite of all the criticism 
to which his injudicious edition of Pope exposed 
Bowles afterwards, there can be no doubt that 
Byron, in his calmer moments, did justice to that 
exquisite poetical genius which, by their own con- 
fession, originally inspired both Wordsworth and 
Coleridge.] 

8 [" Fresh fish from Helicon! " — " Helicon" is 
a mountain and not a fish pond. It should have 
been " Hippocrene." — Byron, 1816.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



113 



Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
Who will peruse thy prostituted ream's ? 
Oh pen perverted I paper misapplied ! 
Had Cottle 1 still adorned the counter's side, 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils. 
Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 
Ploughed, delved, or plied the oar with lusty 

limb, . 
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 2 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may 

sleep. 
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
Dull Maurices all his granite weight of leaves : 
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 
That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering 
back again. 

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 
Lo 1 sad Alcaeus wanders down the vale ; 
Though fair they rose, and might have 

bloomed at last, 
His hopes have perished by the northern 

blast : 
Nipped in the bud by Caledonian gales. 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails' 
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ; 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep 1 4 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once re- 
sign 
His claim to favor from the sacred nine ? 



Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, 
but one or both, once sellers of books they did not 
write, and now writers of books they do not sell 
have published a pair of epics. " Alfred," — (poor 
Allred! Pye has been at him too!) — " Alfred." 
and ^the " Fall of Cambria. " 

/T^ "Al'i'Sht. I saw some letters of this fellow 
(Joseph Cottle) to an unfortunate poetess, whose 
productions, which the poor woman by no means 
thought vainly of, he attacked so roughly and bit- 
terly, that I could hardly resist assailing him, even 
were it unjust, which it is not — for verily he is an 
^ssy ~ Byron, i8i6. 

3 Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the compo- 
neat parts of a ponderous quarto, upon the beau- 
ties of • Richmond Hill," and the like: — it also 
takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Ham- 
mersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the parts 
adjacent. -L The Rev. Thomas Maurice wrote 
Westmmster Abbey," and other poems, the 
History of Ancent and Modern Hindostan," etc., 
and his own "Memoirs; "-a very amusing piece 
of autobiography. He died in 1824, at his%part- 
ments in the British Museum; where he had been 
'O"" some years assistant keeper of MSS.] 
TT |.<50''_,^Iontgomery, though praised by ever\r 
English Review, has been bitterly reviled by the 
Edinburgh. After all, the bard of Sheffield^is I 
^11 ° 1 ^^"^.'^^'■able genius. His " Wanderer of 
bwitzerland ,s worth a thousand "Lyrical Bal- 
lads, and at least fifty " degraded epics." 



For ever startled by the mingled howl 

Of northern wolves, that still in darkness 

prowl ; 
A coward brood, which mangle as they prey 
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way; ' 
Aged or young, the living or the dead. 
No mercy find — these harpies 5 must 'be fed. 
Why do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field ? 
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat. 
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's 

Se^t?6 

Health to immortal Jeffrey I once, in name, 
England could b "^ast a judge almost the same ;' 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
Some think that Satan has resigned his trust 
And given the spirit to the world again. 
To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw; 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party, though a partv tool. 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should re- 

. store 
Back to the sway they forfeited before, 
His scribbling toils some recompense may 
meet, ^ 

And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat ?' 
Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope, 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
" Heir to my virtues I man of equal mind I 
Skilled to condemn as to traduce mankind. 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with ca're, 
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear.'" 

Health to great Jeffrey! Heaven preserve 

his life, 
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in its future wars, ' 
Since authors sometimes seek the 'field of 

Mars! 
Can none remember that eventful day,8 



5 [In a MS. critique on this satire, by the late 
Reverend William Crowe, public orator at Oxford, 
the incongruity of these metaphors is thus noticed: 
" Within the space of three or four couplets he 
transforms a man into as many different animals: 
allow him but the compass of three lines, and he 
will metamorphose him from a wolf into a harpy 
and in three more he will make him a bloodhound." 
On seeing Mr. Crowe's remarks, Byron desired 
Mr. Murray to substitute, in the copy in his pos- 
session, for " hellish instinct," " brutal instinct," 
\or'' harpies:"' felons," ■^xxAior'' blood-hounds," 
hell-hounds.'" \ 

« Arthur's Seat; the hill which overhangs Edin- 
burgh. 

'["Too ferocious— this is mere insanity." — 
Byron, 1816.J ' 

* [" All this is bad, because personal." — ^y^tf«. 
i8i6.1 *^ ^ ' 



Il4 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 
And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing 

by?i 
Oh, day disastrous ! On her firm-set rock, 
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock; 
Dark rolled the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
Low groaned the startled whirlwinds of the 

north ; 
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear, 
The other half pursued its calm career ; 2 
Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base. 
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 
The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes 

can, 
On such occasions, feel as much as man — 
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 
If Jeffrey died, except within her arms :3 
Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn. 
The sixteenth story, where himself was born. 
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 
And pale Edina shuddered at the sound : 
Strewed were the streets around with milk- 
white reams. 
Flowed all the Canongate with inky streams ; 
This of his candor seemed the sable dew. 
That of his valor showed the bloodless hue ; 
And all with justice deemed the two combined 
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
But Caledonia's goddess hovered o'er 
The field, and saved him from the wrath of 

Moore; 
From either pistol snatched the vengeful lead. 



1 In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at 
Chalk-Farm. The duel was prevented by the in- 
terference of the magistracy; and, on examination, 
the balls of the pistols were found to have evapo- 
rated. This incident gave occasion to much wag- 
gery in the daily prints. 

[For this note Moore sent Byron a challenge, 
which resulted in explanations and friendship, in- 
stead of a duel. The note was then omitted from 
the fifth edition, and the following substituted in its 
place.] — "I am informed that Mr. Moore pub- 
lished at the time a disavowal of the statements in 
the newspapers, as far as regarded himself; and, in 
justice to him, I mention this circumstance. As I 
never heard of it before, I cannot state the particu- 
lars, and was only made acquainted with the fact 
very lately. — November 4, 1811." 

2 The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum ; 
it would have been highly reprehensible in the 
English half of the river to have shown the smallest 
symptom of apprehension. 

3 This display of sympathy on the part of the 
Tolbooth (the principal prison in Edinburgh), 
which truly seems to have been most affected 
on this occasion, is much to be commended. It 
was to be apprehended, that the many unhappy 
criminals executed in the front might have ren- 
dered the edifice more callous. She is said to be of 
the softer sex because her delicacy of feeling on 
thi»day was truly feminine, though, like most fem- 
inine impulses, perhaps a little selfish, 



And straight restored it to her favorite's head ; 
That head, with greater than magnetic power, 
Caught it, as Danae caught the golden shower, 
And, though the thickening dross will scarce 

refine. 
Augments its ore, and is i+self a mine. 
" My son," she cried," ne'er thirst for gore again. 
Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 
O'er politics and poesy preside. 
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 
So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, 
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
First in the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen 
The travelled thane, Athenian Aberdeen.* 
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer.^ anc) 

sometimes. 
In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes. 
Smug Sydney 6 too thy bitter page shall seek, 
And classic Hallam,'' much renowned foi 

Greek ; 



* His lordship has been much abroad, is a mem- 
ber of the Athenian Society, and reviewer of" Cell's 
Topography of Troy." — [In 1822, the Earl of Ab- 
erdeen published an " Inquiry into the Principles of 
Beauty in Grecian Architecture."] 

5 Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and 
other poetry. One of the principal pieces is a 
" Song on the Recovery of Thor's Hammer: " the 
translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, 
and endeth thus: — 

" Instead of money and rings, I wot, 

The hammer's bruises were her lot. 

Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 

[The Hon. William Herbert, brother to the Earl o\ 

Carnarvon. He also published, in 1811, " Helga," 

a poem in seven cantos.] 

6 The Rev. Sydney Smith, the reputed author of 
Peter Plymley's Letters and sundry criticisms. 

^ Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's" Taste," 
and was exceedingly severe on some Greek verses 
therein. It was not discovered that the lines were 
Pindar's till the press rendered it impossible to 
cancel the critique, which still stands an everlast- 
ing monument of Hallam's ingenuity. 

Note added to second edition. — The said Hal- 
lam is incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing 
that he never dineth at Holland House. If this be 
true, I am sorry — not for having said so, but on 
his a'ccount, as I understand his lordship's feasts 
are preferable to his compositions. — If he did not 
review Lord Holland's performance, I am glad, be- 
cause it must have been painful to read, and irk- 
some to praise it. If Mr. Hallam will tell me who 
did review it, the real name shall find a place in the 
text; provided, nevertheless, the said name be of 
two orthodox musical syllables, and will come into 
the verse : till then, Hallam must stand for want of 
a better. — [It is not necessary to vindicate the au- 
thor of the " Middle Ages " and the " Constitutional 
History of England" from the insinuations of the 
juvenile poet.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



115 



Scott may perchance his name and influence 

lend, 
And pahry Pillansi shall traduce his friend ; 
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe,2 
Damned ' like the devil, and devil-like will 

damn. 
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 
While grateful Britain yields the praise she 

owes 
To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review- 
Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue. 
Beware lest blundering Brougham 3 destroy the 

sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
Her son, and vanished in a Scottish mist.^ 
Then prosper, Jeffrey ! pertest of the train 
W^hom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain ! 
Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot; 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets. 



1 Pillans is a tutor at Eton.— [Mr. Pillans be- 
came afterwards Rector of the High School at Edin- 
burgh. There was not, it is believed, the slightest 
foundation for the charge in the text.] 

^ The Hon. George Lambe reviewed " Beres- 
ford's Miseries," and is moreover, author of a farce 
enacted with much applause at the Priory, Stan- 
more; and damned with great expedition at the late 
theatre, Covent Garden. It was entitled " Whistle 
for It." — [The reviewer of " Beresford's Miseries " 
was Sir Walter Scott. In 1821, Mr. Lambe pub- 
lished a translation of Catullus. In 1832, he was 
Under Secretary of State for the Home Department. 
He died in 1833.] 

^ Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh 
Review, throughout the article concerning Don 
Pedro de Cevallos, has displayed more politics than 
policy; many of the worthy burgesses of Edin- 
burgh being so incensed at the infamous principles 
it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subscriptions. 
— [Here followed, in the first edition, — " The name 
of this personage is pronounced Broom in the south, 
but the truly northern and viiisical pronunciation 
is Bkough-am, in two syllables; " but for this, By- 
ron substituted in the second edition: — "It seems 
that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposed, 
but a Borderer, and his name is pronounced Broom, 
from Trent to Tay: — so be it." — The Cevallos ar- 
ticle was written by Jeffrey.] 

* I ought to apologize to the worthy deities for 
introducing a new goddess with short petticoats to 
their notice; but, alas! what was to be done? I 
could not say Caledonia's genius, it being well 
known there is no such genius to be found from 
Clackmanan to Caithness; yet, without suoernat- 
ural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The 
national "kelpies" are too unpoetical, and the 
"brownies" and " gude neighbors" 'spirits of a 
good disposition) refused to extricate him. A god- 
dess, therefore, has been called for the purpose; 
and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, see- 
ina. '»t is the only communication he ever held, or is 
liV*ly to hold, with any thing heavenly. 



And showers their odors on thy candid sheets, 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work ad- 
here — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear.5 
Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamoured 

grown. 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone ; 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men. 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 

Illustrious Holland! hard would be his lot. 
His hirelings naentioned, and himself fo; got !" 
Holland, with Henry Petty ' at his back, 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland 

House,** 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may ca- 
rouse 1 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept 

aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork. 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 
And, grateful for the dainties on his plate. 
Declare his landlord can at least translate !» 
Dunedin ! view thy children with delight, 
They write for food — and feed because they 

write ; 
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape. 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press es- 
cape. 
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
Reforms each error, and refines the whole.w 



f" See the color of the back binding of the Edin- 
burgh Review. 

« [" Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too." 
— ^yro«, 1816.] 

' [Lord Henry Petty; — now(i855) Marquess of 
Lansdowne.] 

» [In 1813, Byron dedicated the Bride of Abydos 
to Lord Holland; and we find in his Journal (Nov. 
17th) this passage : — "1 have had a most kind let- 
ter from Lord Holland on the Bride of Abydos, 
which he likes, and so does Lady H. This is very 
good-natured in both, from whom I don't deserve 
any quarter. Yet I did think at the time that my 
cause of enmity proceeded from Holland House, 
and am glad I was wrong, and wish I had not been 
in such a hurry with that confounded Satire, of 
which I would suppress even the memory; but peo- 
ple, now they can't get it, make a fuss, I verily be- 
lieve out of contradiction."] 

3 Lord Holland has translated some specimens of 
Lope de Vega, inserted in his life of the author. 
B;ith are bepraised by his disinterested guests. — 
[Lord Holland afterwards published a very good 
version of the 28th canto of the Orlando Furioso, 
in an appendix to one of Stewart Rose's vobune-;.] 

'" Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of hav- 
ing displayed her matchless wit in the Edinburgh 
Review. However that may be, we know, from 
good authority, that the manuscripts are submitted 
to her perusal — no doubt, for correction. 



116 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH RE VI RIVERS. 



Now to the Drama turn — Oh ! motley sight ! 

What precious scenes the wondering eyes in- 
vite ! 

Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent.i 

And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 

Though now, thank Heaven ! the Roscio- 
mania's o'er,2 

And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 

Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 

While British critics suffer scenes like these ; 

While Reynolds vents his " dammes ! " 
" poohs ! " and " zounds ! " 3 

And common-place and common sense con- 
founds ? 

While Kenney's " World " — ah ! where is 
Kenney's wit ? — 

Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit ; 

And Beaumont's pilfered Caratach affords 

A tragedy complete in all but words ? 4 

Who but must mourn, while these are all the 
rage, 

The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 

Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone? 

Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! 

Awake, George Colman ! 5 Cumberland,* a- 
wake! 



1 In the melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince 
is clapt into a barrel on the stage; a new asylum 
for distressed heroes. — [In the original MS. the 
note stands thus : — " In the melo-drama of Tekeli, 
that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage, 
and Count Evrard in the fortress hides himself in a 
green-house built expressly for the occasion. 'Tis 
a pity that Theodore Hook, who is really a man of 
talent, should confine his genius to such paltry pro- 
ductions as the ' Fortress,' * Music Mad,' etc. etc." 
— This extraordinary humorist was a mere boy at 
the date of Byron's satire.] 

2 [Master Betty, " the young Roscius," had a lit- 
tle before been the rage with the play-going "public] 

^ All these are favorite expressions of Mr. Rey- 
nolds, and prominent in his comedies, living and 
defunct. 

■* Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury 
Lane theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of 
the dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spec- 
tacle of Caractacus. Was this worthy of his sire? 
or of himself? — [Thomas Sheridan, who united 
much of the convivial wit of his parent to many 
amiable qualities, was afterwards made colonial 
paymaster at the Cape of Good Hope, where he 
died in September, 1817, leaving a widow whose 
novel of "Carwell" obtained much approbation, 
and several children; among others, the Honorable 
Mrs. Norton.] 

" [Byron entertained a high opinion of George 
Colman's conversational powers. — " If I had," he 
says, " to choose, and could not have both at a 
time, I should say, ' Let me begin the evening with 
Sheridan, and finish it with Colman.' Sheridan for 
dinner, and Colman for supper; Sheridan for claret 
or port, but Colman for every thing. Sheridan 
was a grenadier company of life-gmrds, but Col- 
man a whole regiment — of light iiifantry, to be 
sure, but still a regiment."] 

•= [Richard Cumberland, the author of the " West 



Ring the alarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assume her throne again ; 
Abjure the mummery of the German schoo's ; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her 

head, 
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to 

tread ? "' 
On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's 

mask, 
And Hook concealed his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother 

Goose ? 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise. 
Still Skefifington and Goose divide the prize.8 
And sure great Skefifington must claim our 

praise. 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renowned alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay de- 
signs ; 9 
Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on.w 
While poor John Bull, bewildered with the 

scene. 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean ; 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now. Ah 1 wherefore should 
we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 



Indian," the " Observer," and one of the most inter- 
esting of autobiographies, died in 1811.] 

^ [In all editions previous to the fifth, it was, 
" Kemble lives to tread." Byron used to sf,y, that, 
" of actors, Cooke was the most natural, Kemble 
the most supernatural, Kean the medium between 
the two; but that Mrs. Siddons was worth them all 
put together." Such efiect, however, had Kean's 
acting on his mind, that once, on seeing him play 
Sir Giles Overreach, he was seized with a fit.] 

* [Dibdin's pantomime of Mother Goose had a 
run of nearly a hundred nights, and brought n.ore 
than twenty thousand pounds to the treasury ol 
Covent Garden theatre.] 

" Mr Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to 
Drury Lane theatre — as such, Mr. Skefifington is 
much indebted to him. 

'f Mr. [afterwards Sir Lumley] Skefifington is the 
illustrious author of the" Sleeping Beauty; " and 
some comedies, particularly " Maids and Bache- 
lors : " Baccalaurii baculo magis quam lauro digni. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEIVERS. 



117 



Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; 
Weil miiy they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalani's pantaloons.i 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humor than grimace.^ 

Then let Ausonia, skilled in every art 
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. 
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down : 
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 
And bless the promise which his form dis- 
plays ; 
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured 

looks 
Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes : 
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless 

veil; 
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow. 
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe ; 
Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening 

throng ! 
Whet not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 
Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save. 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, dis- 
play 
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 

Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle ! 3 



1 Naldi and Catalan! require little notice; for the 
visage of the one and the salary of the other, will 
enable us long to recollect these amusing vaga- 
bonds. Besides, we are still black and blue from 
the squeeze on the first night of the lady's appear- 
ance in trousers. 

2 [The following twenty lines were struck oft one 
night after Byron's return from the Opera, and sent 
the next morning to the printer.] 

^ To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a 
street for a man, I beg leave to state, that it is the 
institution, and not the duke of that name, which is 
here alluded to. A gentleman, with whom I am 
slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle Rooms sev- 
eral thousand pounds at backgammon.* It is but 
justice to the manager in this instance to say, that 
some degree of disapprobation was manifested: but 
why are the implements of gambling allowed in a 
place devoted to the society of both sexes? A pleas- 
ant thing for tlie wives and daughters of those who 
are blest or cursed with such connections, to hear 
the billiard tables rattling in one room, and the dice 
in another ! I'hat this is the case I myself can testify, 
as a late unworthy member of an institution which 
materially aTects the morals of the higher orders, 
while the lower may not even move to the soimd of 
a tabor and fiddie, withoui. a chance of indictment 
for riotous behavier. 



Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallowed 

fane, 
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
Behold the new Petronius-* of the day, 
Our arbiter of pleasure and of play I 
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, 
The song from Italy, the step frotn France, 
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance. 
The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, 
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords 

combine 
Each to his humor — Comus all allows; 
Champagne, dice, music, or your neighbor's 

spouse. 
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made; 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask. 
Nor think of poverty, except "en masque," 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was, 
The curtain dropped, the gay burletta o'er, 
The audience take their turn upon the floor ; 
Now round the room the circling dow'gers 

sweep, 
Nowin loose waltzthe thin-clad daughters leap ; 
The first in lengthened line majesdc swim. 
The last display the free unfettered limb ! 
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 
With art the charms which nature could not 

spare ; 
These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh 1 blest retreats of infamy and ease, 
Where, all forgotten but the power to please, 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
Each swain may teach new systems, or be 

taught : 
There the blithe youngster, just returned from 

Spain, 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
The jovial caster's set, and seven's the nick. 
Or — done I — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire. 
And all your hope or wish is to expire. 
Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life. 
And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife ; 5 
Fit consummation of an earthly race. 
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 
While none but menials o'er the bed of death. 
Wash thy red wound's, or watch thy wavering 

breath ; 
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all. 
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl. 
To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall.6 



* [" True. It was Billy Way who lost the money. 
I knew him, and was a subscriber to the Argyle at 
the time of the event."' — Byron, i8i6.] 



* Petronius "Arbiter Elegantiarum" to Nero, 
" and a very pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Con- 
greve's " Old Bachelor " saith of Hannibal. 

[The original reading was, "a Paget for your 



wife 



i"i 



new the late Lord Falkland well. On Sun- 



118 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide 

his hand 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skilled to know the right and choose the 

wrong, 
Freed r,t that age when reason's shield is lost, 
To fight my course through passion's count- 
less host, 1 
Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the pubUc 

weal ; 
Although some kind, censorious friend will 

say, 
" What art thou better, meddling fool, 2 than 

they ? " 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist in me. 
No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening 

song. 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles, 3 
Why should we call them from their dark 

abode. 
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ? 
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the 

Square ? 
If things of ton their harmless lays indite. 
Most wisely doomed to shun the public sight. 



day night I beheld him presiding at his own table, 
in all the honest pride of hospitality; on Wednesday 
morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched before me 
all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of 
passions. He was a gallant and successful officer: 
his faults were the fauhs of a sailor — as such, Brit- 
ons will forgive them. He died like a brave man in 
a better cause; for had he fallen in like manner on 
the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, 
his last moments would have been held up by his 
countrymen as an example to succeeding heroes. — 
[Lord Falkland was killed in a duel by Mr. Powell, 
in i8og. Though his own difficulties pressed on him 
at the time, Tiyron gave five hundred pounds to the 
widow and children of his friend.] 

1 [" Yes: and a precious chase they led me." — 
Byron, 1816.] 

- \'^ Fool enough, certainly, then, and no wiser 
aince." — Byroit, 1816.] 

2 What would be the sentiments of the Persian 
Anacreon, Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid 
sepulchre at Sheeraz, (where he reposes with Fer- 
4ousi and Sadi, the oriental Homer and Catullus,) 
and behold his name assumed by one Stott of Dro- 
more, the most impudent and execrable of literary 
poachers for the daily prints? 



What harm ? In spite of every critic elf, 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Miles Andrews 4 still his strength in couplets 

try. 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
Lords too are bards, such things at times be- 
fall, 
And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times. 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their 

rhymes ? 5 
Roscommon! Shefifield ! withyour spirits fled. 
No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle.6 
The puny schoolboy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow 

worse ? 
What heterogeneous honors deck the peer ! 
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer!'' 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age. 
His scenes alone had damned our sinking 

stage ; 
Butmanagers for once cried," Hold, enough !" 
Nor drugged their audience with the tragic 

stuff. 
Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 
And case his volumes in congenial calf; 
Yes ! doff that covering, where morocco shines. 
And hang a calf-skin 8 on those recreant lines.'J 

* [Miles Peter Andrews, many years M. P., Colo- 
nel of the Prince of Wales's Volunteers, author of 
numerous prologues, epilogues, and farces, and one 
the heroes of the Baviad. He died in 1814 ] 

" [In the original manuscript we find these lines : — 
" In these, our times, with daily wonders big, 

A lettered peer is like a lettered pig; 

Both know their alphabet, but who, from thence 

Infers that peers or pigs have manly sense? 

Still less that such should woo the graceful nine: 

Parnassus was not made for lords and swine."] 

^ [On being told that it was believed he alluded 
to Lord Carlisle's nervous disorder in this line, By- 
ron exclaimed, — " I thank heaven I did not know 
it; and would not, could not, if I had. I must natu- 
rally be the last person to be pointed on defects or 
maladies."] 

' The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an 
eighteen-penny pamphlet on the state of the stage, 
and offers his plan for building a new theatre. It 
is to be hoped his lordship will be permitted to 
bring forward any thing for the stage — except 
his own tragedies. 

8 " Doff that lion's hide, 

And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." 

Shakspeare: King yohn. 
Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form 
a conspicuous ornament to his book-shelves: — 
" The rest is all but leather and prunella." 

"^ [" Wrong also — the provocation was not suffi- ; 
cient to justify the acerbity." — Byron, 1816, — 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



119 



With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
With you I war not : Gifford's heavy hand 
Has crushed, without remorse, your numer- 
ous band. 
On " all the talents " vent your venal spleen ; 
Want is vour plea, let pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew. 
And Melville's Mantle ^ prove a blanket too ! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard. 
And, peace be with you ! 'tis your best reward. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; 
But now at' once your fleeting labors close. 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, 
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. "■^ 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals 

fill. 
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns 

still ; 
Last of the howling host w hich once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew. 
Chained to the signature of O. P. Q.3 



Byron greatly regretted the sarcasms he had pub- 
lished against his noble relation, under the mis- 
taken im;)ression that Lord Carlisle had intention- 
ally slighted him. In a letter to Mr. Rogers, written 
in 1814, he asks, — " Is there any chance or possi- 
bility of making it up with Lord Carlisle, as I feel 
disposed to do any tiling reasonable or unreasona- 
ble to effect it?" And in the third canto of Childe 
Harold, he thus adverts to the fate of the Hon. 
Frederick Howard, Lord Carlisle's youngest son, 
one of those who fell gloriously at Waterloo: — 
" Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than 
mine: 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
A jid partly that I did his Sire sojiie wrong., 
And partly that bright names will hallow song; 
And his was of the bravest, and when show- 
ered. 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files 

along. 
Even where the thickest of war's tempests 
lowered. 
They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, 
gallant Howard ! "] 

1 " Melville's Mantle," a parody on *' Elijah's 
Mantle," a poem. 

2 This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the 
noted Jew King, seems to be a follower of the Delia 
Crusca school, and has published two volumes of 
very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go; 
besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition 
of the Monk. — ["She since married the Morning 
Post — an exceeding good match; and is now dead 
— which is better." — Byron, 1816.] 

' These are the signatures of various worthies who 
figure in the poetical departments of the newspapers. 



When some brisk youth, the tenant of a 

stall,4 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl. 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of 

shoes, 
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse. 
Heavens 1 how the vulgar stare I how^rowds 

applaud ! 
How ladies read, and literari laud ! 5 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his 

jest, 
'Tis sheer ill-nature — don't the world know 

b(^St ? 

Genius must guide when wits admire the 

rhyme, 
And Capel Lofft^ declares 'tis quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless 

spade ! 
Lo ! Burns'' and Bloomfield, nay, a greater 

far, 

* [Joseph Blackett, the shoemaker. He died at 
Seaham, in 1810. His poems were afterwards col- 
lected by Pratt; and, oddly enough, his principal 
patroness was Miss Milbanke, then a stranger to 
Byron. In a letter written to Dallas, on board the 
Volage frigate at sea, in June, 181 1, Byron says, — 
" I see that yours and Pratt's protege, Blackett the 
cobbler is dead, in spite of his rhymes, and is proba- 
bly one of the instances where death has saved a 
man from damnation. You were the ruin of that 
poor fellow amongst you: had it not been for his 
patrons, be might now have been in very good 
plight, shoe- (not verse-) making; but yon have 
made him immortal with a vengeance: who would 
think that anybody would be such a blockhead as 
to sin against an express proverb, — ' Ne sutor ultra 
crepidam ! ' 
' But spare him, ye Critics, his follies are past, 

For the Cobbler is come, as he ought, to his last.^ — 
Which two lines, with a scratch under last, to show 
where the joke lies, I beg tiiat you will prevail on 
Miss Milbanke to have inserted on the tomb of her 
departed Blackett."] 

f" [" This was meant for poor Blackett, who was 
then patronized by A. J. B." (Lady Byron); "but 
that 1 did not know, or this would not have been 
written, at least I think not." — Byron, 1816.] 

'' Capel Lofft, Esq., the Maecenas of shoemakers, 
and preface-writer-general to distressed versemen; a 
kind of gratis accoucheur to those who wish to be 
delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring 
forth. — [ Bloomfield owed his first celebrity to the 
notice of Capel Lofft and Thomas Hill, who recom- 
mended his " Farmer's Boy" to a publisher, and by 
their influence attracted attention to its merits. The 
public sympatliy did not rest permanently on the 
amiable poet, who died in extreme poverty in 1823.] 

" [" Read Burns to-day. What would he have 
been if a patrician? We should have had more 
polish — less force — just as much verse, but no im- 
mortality — a divorce and a duel or two, the which 
had he survived, as his potations must have been 
less spirituous, he might have lived as long as Sheri- 
dan, -and outlived as much as poor Brinsley." — By- 
rons Journal, 1813.] 



120 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, 
Forsook the labors of a servile state, 
Stemmed the rude storm, and triumphed over 

fate : 
Then why no m-jic ? if Phoebus smiled on 

you, 
Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan too ? i 
Him tcfe the mania, not the muse, has seized ; 
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 
And now no boor can seek his last abode. 
No common be inclosed without an ode. 
Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to 

smile 
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul 1 
Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 
Compose at once a slipper and a song; 
So shall the fair your handywork peruse. 
Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your 

shoes. 
May Moorland weavers 2 boast Pindaric skill, 
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful 

notes. 
And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute 

due, 
Neglected genius ! let me turn to you. 
Come forth, oh Campbell ! 3 give thy talents 

scope ; 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
And thou, melodious Rogers ! ^ rise at last, 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past; 
Arise 1 let blest remembrance still inspire. 



1 See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or what- 
ever he or any one else chooses to call it, on the in- 
closure of" Honington Green." 

2 Vide " Recollections of a Weaver in the Moor- 
lands of Staffordshire." 

3 It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of 
the reader the authors of " The Pleasures of Mem- 
ory " and " The Pleasures of Hope," the most beau- 
tiful didactic poems in our language, if we except 
Pope's " Essay on Man: " but so many poetasters 
have started up, that even the names of Campbell 
and Rogers are become strange. — [Beneath this 
note Byron scribbled, in 1816, — 

Pretty Miss Jaqueline 

Had a nose aquiline, 

And would assert rude 

Things of Miss Gertrude, 

While Mr. Marmion 

Led a great army on. 

Making Kehama look 

Like a fierce Mameluke.] 
■* ["I have been reading," says Byron in 1813, 
" Memory again, and Hope togetlier, and retain all 
my preference of the former. His elegance is really 
wonderful — there is no such a thing as a vulgar line 
in his book." Tn i8i6, Byron wrote — " Rogers has 
not fulfilled the promise of his first poems, but has 
still very great merit."] 



And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre ; 
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 
Assert thy country's honor and thine own. 
What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 
Where her last hopes with pious Cowper 

sleep ? 
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she 

turns, 
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, 

Burns ! 
No I though contempt hath marked the spu- 
rious brood, 
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, 
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast. 
Who, least affecting, still affect the most : 
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 
Bear witness Giftbrd,^ Sotheby,6 Macneii.'' 

" Why slumbers Gifford ? " once was asked 

in vain ; 
Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again. 
Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? § 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the 

scourge ? 
Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet ? 
Stalks not gigandc Vice in every street ? 
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path. 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time. 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claimed. 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

5 Gifford, author of the Baviad and Maeviad, the 
first satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal. — 
[The opinion of Mr. Gifford had always great weight 
with Byron. " Any suggestion of yours," he says 
in a letter written in 1813, "even were it conveyed 
in the less tender shape of the text of the Baviad, or 
a Monk Mason note in Massinger, would be obeyed." 
A few weeks before his death, on hearing from Eng- 
land of a report that he had written a satire on Mr. 
Gifford, he wrote instantly to Mr. Murray : — " Who- 
ever asserts that I am the author or abetter of any 
thing of the kind lies in his throat. It is not true 
that I ever did, ivill. would, could, or should write 
a satire against Gifford, or a hair of his head. I 
always considered him as my literary father, and 
myself as his ' prodigal ' son ; and if I have allowed 
his ' fatted calf ' to grow to an ox before he kills it 
on my return, it is only because I prefer beef to 
veal."] 

^ Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and 
Virgil's Georgics, and author of " Saul," an epic 
poem. 

^ Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular, 
particularly " Scotland's Scaith," and the " Waes of 
War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in 
one month. — [Hector Macneil died in 1818.] 

^ Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad 
and MpEviad should not be his last original works: 
let him rememlier " Mox in rehictantes dracones." ' 
— [Mr. Gifford became the editor of the Quarterly 
Review, — which thenceuivth occupied most of his 
time, — a few months after the first appearance of 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



121 



Unhappy White ! i while life was in its 

spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous 

wing, 
The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science" self destroyed her favorite son 1 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped 

the fruit, 
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee 

low : 
So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain. 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again. 
Viewed his o\\ n feather on the fatal dart,"'^ 
And winged the shaft that quivered in his 

heart ; 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impelled the 

steel ; 
While the same plumage that had warmed his 

nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding 

breast. 

There be, who say, in these enlightened 
days. 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
That strained invention, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
'Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who 

write, 
Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 



* Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in Octo- 
ber, i8o5, in consequence of too much exertion in 
the pursuit of studies that would have matured a 
mind which disease and poverty could not impair, 
and which de.ith itself destroyed rather than sub- 
dued. His poems abound in such beauties as must 
impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so 
short a period was allotted to talents which would 
have dignified even the sacred functions he was des- 
tined to assume. — [In a letter to Mr. Dallas, in 
1811, Byron says, — "I am sorry you don't like 
Harry White; with a great deal of cant, which in 
him was sincere (indeed it killed him, as you killed 
Joe Blackett), certes there is poesy and cetiius. I 
don't say this on accoimt of my simile and rhymes; 
but surely he was beyond all the Bloomfields and 
Blacketts, and their collateral cobblers, whom Lofft 
and Prat» have or may kidnap from their calling into 
the service of the trade. Setting aside bigotry, he 
surely ranks next to Chatterton. It is astonishing 
how little he was known ; and at Cambridge no one 
thought or heard of such a man till his death ren- 
dered all notices useless. For my part, I should 
have been most proud of such an acquaintance : his 
very prejudices were respectable."] 
2 [That eagle's fate and mine are one, 

Which on the shaft that made him die, 
Espied a feather of his own 

Wherewith he wont to soar on high. 

Waller.^ 



Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest 

fires. 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest ; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the 

best.3 

And here let Shee •* and Genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine. 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow 
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow ; 
While honors, doubly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the 

bower 
Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour; 
Whose steps have pressed, whose eye has 

marked afar 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and 

war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallowed feelings for those classic lands ; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone bv, 
And views their remnants with a poet's eye ! 
Wright ! 5 'twas thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate bards 1 who snatched 
to light 
Those gems too long withheld from modern 

sight ; 
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the 

wreath 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odors breathe, 
And all their renovated fragrance flung, 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue; 
Now let those minds, that nobly could trans- 
fuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse. 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrowed tone : 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

3 [" I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first 
of these times, in point of power and genius." — 
Byron, 1816.] 

* Mr. Shee, author of " Rhymes on Art," and 
" Elements of Art." — [Afterwards Sir Martin Shee, 
and President of the Royal Academy.] 

■' Waller Rodwell Wright, late consul-general for 
the Seven Islands, is author of a ^■ery beautiful poem, 
just published: it is entitled " Horae Ionics," and 
is descriptive of the isles and the adjacent coast of 
Greece. 

*"■ The translators of the Anthology, Bland and 
Merivale, have since published separate poems, 
which evince genius that only requires opportu- 
nity to attain eminence. 



122 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Let these, or such as these, with j ust applause 
Restore the muse's violated laws ; 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
That mighty master ot unmeaning rhyme. 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorned than 

clear, 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear; 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
But now, worn down, appear in native brass ; 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in similes and sound : 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.i 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop. 
The meanest object of the lowly group, 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
Seems blessed harmony to Lamb and Lloyd : 2 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to 

teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
The native genius with their being given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes to 

heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott I 3 resign to minstrels 

rude 
The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
Let others spin their meagre hnes for hire ; 
Enough for genius if itself inspire 1 
Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse. 
Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 
Let simple Wordsworth 4 chime his cliildish 

verse, 
And Brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse ; 
Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most. 
To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost; 
Let Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal from 

Moore, 
And swear that Camoens sang such notes of 

yore; 
Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 
And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; 
Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, 
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; 
Let Stott. Carlisle.5 Matilda, and the rest 



1 The neglect of the " Botanic Garden " is some 
proof of returning taste. The scenery is its sole 
recommendation. 

2 Messrs. Lamb and Lloyd, the most ignoble fol- 
lowers of Southey and Co. — [In 1798, Charles Lamb 
and Charles Lloyd published in conjunction a vol- 
ume, entitled, " Poems in Blank Verse."] 

3 By the by, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem, 
his hero or heroine will be less addicted to "Gra- 
marye," and more to grammar, than the Lady of 
the Lay and her bravo, William of Deloraine. 

< ["Unjust." — y9j/r<;«, 1816.] 

^ It may be asked, why I have censured the Earl 
of Carlisle, my guardian and relative, to whom I 
dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years 
ago? — The guardianship was nominal, at least as 
far as I have been able to discover; the relationship 



Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the 

best. 
Scrawl on, till death release us from the 

strain, 
Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
But tiiou, with powers that mock the aid of 

praise, 
Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lavs : 
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
Demand a hallowed harp — that harp is thine. 
Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler field, 
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of 

man ? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood ? 
Scotland! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live. 
But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
Be known, perchance, when 'Albion is no 

more, 
And toll the tale of what she was before; 
To future times her faded fame recall. 
And save her glory, though his country fall.. 

Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope. 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise. 
And other victors fill the applauding skies ; 
A few brief generations fleet along. 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 

I cannot help, and am very sorry for it; but as his 
lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential oc- 
casion to me, I shall not burden my memory with 
the recollection. I do not think that personal dif- 
ferences sanction the unjust condemnation of a 
brother scribbler; but I see no reason why they 
should act as a preventive, when the author, noble, 
or ignoble, has, for a series of years, beguiled a 
"discerning public" (as the advertisements ha\e 
it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial 
nonsense. Besides, I do not step aside to vituperate 
the earl: no — his works come fairly in review with 
those of other patrician literati. If, before I es- 
caped from my teens, I said any thing in favor of 
his lordship's paper books, it was in the way of du- 
tiful dedication, and more from the advice of others 
than my own judgment, and I seize the first oppor- 
tunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I 
have heard that some persons conceive me to be 
under obligations to Lord Carlisle: if so, I shall be 
most particularly happy to learn what they are, and 
when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated 
and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly 
advanced as an opinion on his printed things, I am 
pr.p ired to support, if necessary, by quotations 
from elegies, eulogies, odes, epi.sodes, and certain 
facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and 
mark : — 
" What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards? 
Alas! not all the blood of all the How 'rds." 



So says Pope, 
whatever the f '111 



Amen! — [" Much too savage, 
duion might be." — f<yrov, 1816] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



123 



E'en now, what once-loved minstrel scarce 

may claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When f;\me's loud trump hath blown its no- 
blest blast, 
Thougli long the sound, the echo sleeps at 

last ; 
Ami glory, like the phoenix i 'midst her fires. 
Exhales her odors, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons. 
Expert in science, more expert at puns ? 
Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she 

flies. 
Even from the tempting ore t>f Seaton's prize ; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhvme by Hoare,- and epic blank by 

Hoyle : 3 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist. 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.-* 
Ye 1 who in Granta's honors would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

There Clarke, still striving piteously "to 
please," 
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,^ 
Condemned to drudge, the meanest of the 

mean, 
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine. 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
Himself a hving libel on mankind.^ 

Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race ! 7" 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ! 



1 [" The devil take that plioenix ! How came it 
there?" — ^yr^w, i8i6.] 

- [The Rev. Charles James Hoare published, in 
i8o8, the " Shipwreck of St. Paul," a Seatonian 
prize poem.] 

^ [The Rev. Charles Hoyle, author of " Exo- 
dus," an epic in thirteen books, and several other 
Seatonian prize poems.] 

•• The " Games of Hoyle," well known to the 
votaries of whist, chess, etc., are not to be super- 
seded by the vagaries of his poetical namesake, 
whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the 
advertisement, all the " plagues of Eg^'pt." 

•'' ["Right enough: this was well deserved, and 
well laid on." — Byron, i8i6.] 

" This person, who has lately betrayed the most 
rabid symptoms of confirmed authorship, is writer 
of a poem denominated the " Art of Pleasing," as 
" lucus a non lucendo," containing little pleasantry 
and less poetry. He also acts as monthly stipendi- 
ary and collector of calumnies for the " Satirist." 
If this unfortunate young man would exchange the 
magazines for the mathematics, and endeavor to 
take a decent degree in his university, it might 
eventually prove more serviceable than his present 
salary. — [Mr. Hewson Clarke was also the author 
of" The Saunterer," and a " History of the Cam- 
paign in Russia."] 

' " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus 



So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's « verse 
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's^ 

worse. 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave. 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 
On her green banks a greener wreath she 

wove, 
To crown the bards that haunt her classic 

grove ; 
Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 
And modern Britons glory in their sires. i" 

' For me, who, thus unasked, have dared to 

tell 
Mv country, what her sons should know too 

well, 
Zeal for her honor bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age; 
No just applause her honored name shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
What Tyre appeared in her meridian hour, 
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been — 
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen: 
But Rome decayed, and Athens strewed the 

plain. 
And Tyre's proud piers lie sliattcred in the 

main; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin 

hurled. 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
With warning ever scoffed at, til! too late ; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine. 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine.H 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
WhileCanning'scolleagueshate him forhiswit. 



transported a considerable body ot \a.id.ils."— 
Gibbons' Decline and Fall, vol. ii. p. 83. There is 
no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion; the 
breed is still in high perfection. 

=* This gentleman's name requires no praise: the 
man who in translation displays unqtiestionable ge- 
nius may be well expected to excel in original com- 
position, of which it is to be hoped we shall soon 
see a splendid specimen. — [Besides a translation 
of Juvenal, Mr. Hodgson published " I.ady Jane 
Grey," " Sir Edgar," and "The Friends," a poem 
in four books. He also translated, in loajaicuon 
with Dr. Butler, Lucien Bonaparte's unreadable 
epic of" Charlemagne."] 

'•* Hewson Clarke, Esq., as it is written. 

1" The "Aboriginal Britons," an excellentpoemby 
Richards. [The Rev. George Richards, D.D., au- 
thor of " Songs of the Aboriginal Bards of Britain," 
" Modern France," two volumes of Miscellaneous 
Poems, and Bampton Lectures "On the Divine Ori- 
gin nf Prophecy."] 

" [With this verse the Satire originally ended.] 



124 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



And old dame Portland i fills the place of Pitt. 
Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, 
And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight : 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native 

clime,2 
Where Kaff^ is clad in rocks, and crowned 

with snows sublime. 
But should I back return, no tempting press 4 
Shall drag my journal from the desk's recess : 
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, 
Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr ; 5 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin ^ still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtu ; 
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian 

freaks. 
Misshapen monuments and maimed antiques ; 
And make their grand saloons a general mart 
For all the mutilated blocks of art. 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topography to rapid " Cell ; 8 



1 A friend of mine being asked, why his Grace 
of Portland was likened to an old woman? replied, 
" he supposed it was because he was past bearing." 
— His Grace is now gathered to his grandmothers, 
where he sleeps as sound as ever; but even his 
sleep was better than his colleagues' waking. i8ii. 

- Georgia. " Mount Caucasus. 

* [These four lines originally stood, — 

" But should I back return, no lettered sage 
Shall drag my common-place book on the stage; 
Let vain Valentia* rival luckless Carr.f 
And equal him whose work he sought to mar."] 

^ [In a letter written from Gibraltar to his friend 
Hodgson, Byron says, -r" I have seen Sir John 
Carr at Seville and Cadiz, and, like Swift's barber, 
have been down on my knees to beg he would not 
put me into black and white."] 

'' Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the 
figures, with and without noses, in his stoneshop are 
the work of Phidias! " Credat Judaeus! " 

^ [The original epithet was " classic." Byron 
altered it in the fifth edition, and added this note — 
"'Rapid,' indeed! He topographized and typo- 
graphized King Priam's dominions in three days! 
I called him ' classic ' before I saw the Troad, but 
since have learned better than to tack to his name 
what don't belong to it."] 

8 Mr. Cell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca can- 



* Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are 
forthcoming with due decorations, graphical, topo- 
graphical, typographical) deposed, on Sir John 
Carr's unlucky suit, that Mr. Dubois's satire pre- 
vented his purchase of the " Stranger in Ireland." 
— Oh, fie, my lord! has your lordship no more feel- 
ing for a fellow-tourist.'' — but "two of a trade," 
they say, etc. 

t [From the many tours he made. Sir John was 
called " The Jaunting Car." Edward Dubois hav- 
ing severely lashed him in a publication, called 
" My Pocket Book; or Hints for a Ryght Merrie 
and Conceited Tour," Sir John brought an action 
of damages against the publisher; but as the work 
cont.'iined only what the court deemed legitimate 
criticism, the knight was nonsuited.] 



And,- quite content, no more shall interpose 
To stun the pubhc ear — at least with prose.9 

Thus far I've held my undisturbed career, 
Prepared for rancor, steeled 'gainst selfish fear : 
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own — 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
My voice was heard again, though not so loud, 
My page, though nameless, never disavowed ; 
And now at once I tear the veil away: — 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house,^" 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's 

spouse. 
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too are " penetrable stuff: " 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound 

would fall 
From lips that now may seem inbued with gall ; 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawled beneath my 

eyes : 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since 

youth, 
I've learned to think, and sternly speak the 

truth ; 
Learned to deride the critic's starch decree. 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss. 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss : 
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters 

frown, ♦ 

I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, armed in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
Thus much I've dared; if my incondite lay 
Hath wronged these righteous times, let others 

say: 



not fail to insure the approbation of every man pos- 
sessed of classical taste, as well for the information 
Mr. Gell conveys to the mind of the reader, as for the 
ability and research the respective works display. — 
[" Since seeing the plain of Troy, my opinions are 
somewhat changed as to the above note. Cell's 
survey was hasty and superficial." — Byron, 18:6. 
Shortly after his return from Greece, in 1811, Byron 
wrote a critique on Sir William Cell's works for 
the Monthly Review.] 

" [Byron set out on his travels with the determi- 
nation to keep no journal. In a letter to his friend 
Henry Drury, when on the point of sailing, he 
pleasnntly says, — " Hobhouse has made woundy 
preparations for a book on his return: — one hun- 
dred pens, two gallons of japan ink, and several 
volumes of best blank, is no bad provision for a dis- 
cerning public. I have laid down my pen, but have 
promised to contribute a chapter on the state o\ 
morals, etc. etc."] 

'° [" Singular enough, and dt7i enough, God 
knows." — Byron, 1816.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 125 



This, let the world, which knows not how to 

spare. 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. i 



cerely wish had never been written — not only on 
account of the injustice of much of the critical, and 
some of the personal part of it — but the tone and 
temper are such as I cannot approve." — Byron, 



[" The greater part of this satire I most sin- ; July 14, 1816. Diodati, Geneva.] 



POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved 
cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, laire- 
sisting. Muse, whom they have already so be-deviled with their ungodly ribaldry: 

" Tantjene animis coelestibus irae! " 

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey, as Sir Andrew Aguecheek saith, " an I had known he was so cunning 
of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the 
Bosphorus before the next number has passed the Tweed ! But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in 
Persia. 

My northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary anthro- 
pophagus, Jeffrey; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and 
slandering," and slake their thirst by "evil speakings?" I have adduced facts already well known, and 
of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury; — what scaven- 
ger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud ? It may be said that I quit England because I have cen- 
sured there " persons of honor and wit about town;" but I am coming back again, and their vengeance 
will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are 
very different from fears, literary of personal : those who do not, may one day be convinced. Since tlie 
publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, ready to 
answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas! " the age of chiv- 
alry is over," or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days. 

There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke (subaudi esquire), a sizer of Emanuel College, and, I be- 
lieve, a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company 
than he has been accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I 
can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and 
whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, 
what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in " The Satirist " for one year and some 
months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of hav- 
ing heard his name till coupled with " The Satirist." He has therefore no reason to complain, and I 
dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I have now mentioned all 
who have done me the honor to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the editor of 
"The Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman — God wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gen- 
tility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his 
Maecenas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not : he was one of the few, who, in the very short intercourse I had 
with him, treated me with kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do, "pour on, I will en- 
dure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and 
publishers, and, in the words of Scott, I wish 

" To all and each a fair good night. 
And rosy dreams and slumbers light." 

[The article referred to in the beginning of the above Postscript never appeared in the Edinburgh 
Review, and in the " Hints from Horace," Byron has triumphantly taunted Jeffrey with a silence which 
seemed to indicate that the critic was beaten from the field.] 



HINTS FROM HORACE: 

BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE "AD PISONES, DE 

ARTE POETICA," AND INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO " ENGLISH 

BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 



Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 



Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." 

Horace's De A rte Poet. 



" Rhymes are difficult things - 



■they are stubborn things, sir. 
Fielding's Amelia. 



[Byron wrote " Hints from Horace " at Athens, in 1811, and brought it home in the sam<s d«sk wuh 
the first two cantos of Childe Harold. He professed to think it superior to Childe Haroid ana w»s> Aah 
apparent difficulty persuaded by lus friends to forego its publication. The favorable reception of Childe 
Harold by the public seems to have softened his feelings towards tlie critics, and as he soon became per- 
sonally acquainted with some of the persons whom he had satirized in the " Hmts," he did not insist upon 
its publication until 1820, when he wrote thus to Mr. Murray : — " Get from Mr. Hobhouse and send me 
a proof of my ' Hints from Horace : ' it has now the ncnium previaiiir in annutn complete for its pro- 
duction. I have a notion that with some omissions of names and passages it will do; and 1 could put 
my late observations y^r Pope amongst the notes. As far as versification goes, it is good; and in looking 
back at what I wrote about that period, I am astonished to see how little 1 have trained on. I wrote 
better then than now; but that comes of my having fUlen into the atrocious bad taste ol the times." On 
hearing, however, that in Mr. Hobhouse's opinion the verses would require " a good deal of slashing" 
to suit the times, the notion of printing them was once more abandoned. They were first published in 
1831, seven years after the author's death. The editor of Murray's edition remarks: — " No part of the 
poem is much above mediocrity, and not a little is below it. The versification, whicli Lord Byron singles 
out for praise, has no distinguishing excellence, and was surpassed by his later iambics in every metrical 
quality, — in majesty, in melody, in freedom, and in spirit. Authors are frequently as bad judces of their- 
own works as men in general are, proverbially, in their own cause, and of all the literary hallucinations 
upon record there are none which exceed the mistaken preferences of Lord Byron. Shortly after the 
appearance of ' The Corsair,' he fancied that 'English Bards' was still his masterpiece; when ail his 
greatest works had been produced, he contended that his translation from Puici was his ' grand perform- 
ance, — the best thing he ever did in his life; ' and throughout the whole of his literary' career he re- 
garded these ' Hints from Horace ' with the fondness which parents are said to feel for their least favored 
offspring."] 



Athens, Capuchin Convent, \ 
March 12,1811. \ 
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to 

grace 
His costly canvas with each flattered face, 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honor to a mermaid's tail ? 
Or low Dubosti — as once the world has 

seen — 

i In an English newspaper, which finds its way 
•broad wherever there are Englishmen, I read an 
account of this dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. 



Degrade God's creatures in his graphic 

spleen ? 
Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning 

friends. 

H as a " beast," and the consequent action, 

etc. The circumstance is, probably, too well known 
to require further comment. — [Thomas Hope, the 
author of " Anastasius," having offended Dubost, 
that painter revenged himself by a picture called 
" Beauty and the Beast," in which Mr. Hope and 
his lady were represented according to the well- 
known fairy story. The e.xhibition of it is snid to 
have fetched thirty pounds in a day. A brother of 
Mrs. Hope thrust his sword through the canvas; 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



\T1 



Believe me, Moschus,^ like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's 

dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete. 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 

Poets and painters, as all artists- know, 
May shoot a little w ith a lengthened bow ; 
We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask ; 
But make not monsters spring from gentle 

dams — 
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

A labored, long exordium, sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends; 
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, 
As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly 

plain : 
The groves of Granta, and her gothic halls. 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stained windows, 

and old walls ; 
Or, in adventurous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, or — the river Thames.^ 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may 

shine — 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign ; 
You plan a vase — it dwindles to a. pot ; 
Then glide down Grub-street — fasting and 

forgot, 
Laughed into Lethe by some quaint Review, 
Whose wit is never troublesome till — true.* 

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire. 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a 

scribe) 
Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 
I labor to be brief — become obscure; 
One falls while following elegance too fast ; 
Another soars, inflated with bombast ; 
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly, 
He spins his subject to satiety; 
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the 
waves ! 

Unless your care's exact, your judgment 
nice, 
The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 



and M. Dubost liad the consolation to get five 
pounds damages. The affair made much noise at 
the time.] 

^["Moschus." — In the original MS., "Hob- 
house."] 

2[ " All artists." — Originally, " We scribblers."] 
• 3 <« Where pure description held the place of 
sense." — Pope. 

* [This is pointed, and felicitously expressed. — 
Moore.\ 



None are complete, all wanting in some part, 

Like certain tailors, limited in art. 

For galligaskins Slowshears is your man ; 

But coats must claim another artisan.*^ 

Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 

As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame : c 

Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 

Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose ! 

Dear authors ! suit your topics to your 

strength, 
And ponder well your subject, and its length ; 
Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware 
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, 

bear. 
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
Await the poet, skilful in his choice ; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted line : 
This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select ; 
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not if 'tis needful to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
(As Pitt ' has furnished us a word or two, 
Which lexicographers declined to do;) 
So you indeed, with care, — (but be content 
To take this license rarely) — may invent. 
New words find credit in these latter days 
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
If you can add a little, say why not, 
As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott ? 
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of 

lungs, 
Enriched our island's ill-united tongues ; 
'Tis then — and shall be — lawful to present 
Reform in writing, as in parliament. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
So fade expressions which in season please; 
And we and ours, alas ! are due to fate, 
And works and words but dwindle to a date. 
Though as a monarch nods, and commerce 

calls, 
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals; 



^ Mere common mortals were commonly content 
with one tailor and with one bill, but the more par- 
ticular gentlemen found it impossible to confide 
their lower garments to the makers of their body 
clothes. I speak of the beginning of 1809: what 
reform may have since taken place I neither know, 
nor desire to know. 

^ [MS. •' As one leg perfect, and the other 
lame."] 

^ Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions to our par- 
liamentary tongue: as may be seen in many publi- 
cations, particularly the Edinburgh Review. 



128 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Though swamps subdued, and marshes 

drained, sustain 
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 
And rising ports along the busy shore 
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar, 
All, all must perish ; but, surviving last. 
The love of letters half preserves the past. 
True, some decay, yet not a few revive ; i 
Though those shall sink, which now appear 

to thrive. 
As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars which gods and angels 
wage. 

Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page ? 

His strain will teach what numbers best be- 
long 

To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish, or the friend's complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or 

blank ? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank? 
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish 
spleen. 
You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's 
dean.2 

Blank verse 3 is now, with one consent, allied 
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's 

days. 
No sing-song hero rants in modern plays ; 



1 Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, 
are at present in as much request as old wine or 
new speeches. In fact, this is the millennium of 
black letter; thanks to our Hebers, Webers, and 
Scotts! — [There was a good deal of malice in thus 
putting Weber, a poor German hack, a mere aman- 
uensis of Sir Walter Scott, between the two other 
names.] 

- " Mac Flecknoe," . the " Dunciad," and all 
Swift's lampooning ballads. Whatever their other 
works may be, these originated in personal feelings, 
and angry retort on unworthy rivals; and though 
the ability of these satires elevates th« poetical, 
their poignancy detracts from the personal character 
of the writers. 

3 [Like Dr. Johnson, Byron maintained the ex- 
cellence of rhyme over blank verse in English poe- 
try. '' Blank verse," he says, in his long lost letter to 
the editor of Blackwood's Magazine, " unless in the 
drama, no one except Milton ever wrote who could 
rhyme. I am aware that Johnson has said, after 
some hesitation, that he could not • prevail upon 
himself to wish that Milton had been a rhymer.' 
The opinions of that truly great man, whom, like 
Pope, it is the present fashion to decry, will ever be 
received by me with that deference which time will 
restore to him from all; but, with all humility, I 
am not persuaded that the ' Paradise Lost ' would 



While modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
For jest and pun'^ in very middling prose. 
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the 

worse, 
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
But so Thalia pleases to appear. 
Poor virgin I damned some twenty times a 

year! 

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have 
weight : — 
Adapt your language to your hero's state. 
At times Melpomene forgets to groan. 
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 
Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
Where angry TownlyS lifts his voice on high. 
Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 
When common prose will serve for common 

things ; 
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, 
To " hollowing Hotspur "^ and the sceptred 

'' sire. 

'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art, 
To polish poems ; — they must touch the heart : 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song. 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; 
Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'er may please you — anything but 

sleep. 
The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave, 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banished Romeo feigned nor sigh nor tear, 
Lulled by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
And men look angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 
For nature formed at first the inward man, 
And actors copy nature — when they can. 
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound, 
Raised to the stars, or levelled with the ground ; 
And for expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung. 



not have been more nobly conveyed to posterity, 
not perhaps in heroic couplets, — altliough even they 
could sustain the subject, if well balanced, — but in 
the stanza of Spenser, or of Tasso, or in the terza 
rima of Dante, which the powers of Milton could 
easily have grafted on our language. The ' Sea- 
sons ' of Thomson would have been better in rhyme, 
although still inferior to his ' Castle of Indolence; ' 
and Mr. Southey's '"Joan of Arc' no worse."] 

* With all the vulgar applnuse and critical abhor- 
rence of //^, they have Aristotle on their side; 
who permits them to orators, and gives them con- 
sequence by a grave disquisition. [" Cicero also," 
says Addison, " has sprinkled several of his works' 
with them; and, in his book on Oratory, quotes 
abundance of sayings as pieces of wit, which, upon 
examination, prove arrant puns."] 

"[In Vanbrugh's comedy of the "Provoked 
Husband."] 

""And m his ear I'll hollow, Mortimer!" — i 
Henry IV. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



129 



She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in theatres) with common sense; 
O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit. 
And raise a laugh with any thing — but wit. 

To skilful writers it will much import, 
Whence spring their scenes, from common 

life or court ; 
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear. 
To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John 

Bull ; " 
All persons please when nature's voice prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : — 
Make it appear as if it wight have been. 

If some Drawcansiri you aspire to draw. 
Present him raving, and above all law : 
If female furies in your scheme are planned, 
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
Constance, King Richaid, Hamlet, and the 

Devil ! 
But if a new design you dare essay. 
And freely wander from the beaten way. 
True to your characters, till all be past. 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'Tis hard to venture where our betters fail. 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ; 
And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
A hackneyed plot, than choose a new, and err ; 
Yet copy not too closely, but record. 
More justly, thought for thought than word 

for word, 
Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways. 
But only follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young banj ! whom luckless fate 

may lead 
To tremble on the nod of all who read. 
Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls. 
Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like 

Bowles I '-^ 



1 [" Johnson. Pray, Mr. Bayes, who is that 
Drawcansir? 

" Bayes. Why, Sir, a great hero, that frights 
his mistress, snubs up kings, baffles armies, and 
does what he will without regard to numbers, good 
sense, or justice." — Rehearsal.^ 

- About two years ago a young man, named 
Townsend, was announced by Mr. Cumberland* 



* [Cumberland died in May, 1811, and had the 
honor to be buried in Westminster Abbey, and to 
be eulogized, while the company stood round the 
grave, in the following manly style by the then 
dean, Dr. Vincent, his schoolfellow, and through 
life his fiijiid. — "Good people! the person you 



" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," — 
And pray, what follows from his boiling 

brain? — 
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 
Whose epic mountains never fail in mice ! 
Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire. 
The tempered warblings of his master-lyre ; 
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
" Of man's first disobedience and the fruit " 

(in a review f since deceased) as being engaged in 
an epic poem to been tilled " Armageddon." The 
plan and specimen promise much ; but I hope 
neither to offend Mr. Townsend, nor his friends, by 
recommending to his attention the lines of Horace 
to which these rhymes allude. If Mr. Townsend 
succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason to 
hope, how much will the world be indebted to Mr. 
Cumberland for bringing him before the public! 
But, till that eventful day arrives, it maybe doubted 
whether the premature. display of his plan (sublime 
as the ideas confessedly are) has not, — by raising 
expectation too high, or diminishing curiosity, by 
developing his argument, — rather incurred the 
hazard of injuring Mr. Townsend's future pros- 
pects. Mr. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not 
depreciate by the humble tribute of my praise) and 
Mr. Townsend must not suppose me actuated by 
unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish the 
author all the success he can wish himself, and 
shall be truly happy to see epic poetry weighed up 
from the bathos where it lies sunken with Southey, 
Cottle, Cowley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, Wilki'e, 
Pye, and all the " dull of past and present days." 
Even if he is not a Miltoti, he may be better than 
Blackmore : if not a Homer, an Antiniachus. 
I should deem myself presumptuous, as a young 
man, in offering advice, were it not addressed to one 



see now deposited is Richard Cumberland, an au- 
thor of no small merit: his writings were chiefly for 
the stage, but of strict moral tendency; they were 
not without faults, but they were not gross, abound- 
ing with oaths and libidinous expressions, as, 1 am 
shocked to observe, is the case of many of the pres- 
ent day. He wrote as much as any one : few wrote 
better; and his works will be held in the highest es- 
timation, as long as the English language will be 
understood. He considered the theatre a school 
for moral improvement, and his remains are truly 
worthy of mingling with the illustrious dead which 
surround us. Read his prose subjects on divinity! 
there you will find the true Christian spirit of a man 
who trusted in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. 
May God forgive him his sins; and, at the resur- 
rection of the just, receive him into everlasting 
glory!"] 

t [The " London Review," set up in 1809, under 
Mr. Cumberland's editorial care, did not outlive 
many numbers. He spoke great things in the pro- 
spectus, about thedistiuguishing featureof the jour- 
nal, namely, its having the writer's name affixed to 
the articles. This plan has succeeded pretty well 
both in France and Germany, but has failed utterly 
as often as it has been tried in England. It is need- 
less, however, to go into any speculation on tlit 
principle here; for the" London Review," whether 
sent into the world with or without names, must 
soon have died of the original disease of duluess.] 



V30 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



He speaks, but, as his subject swells along. 
Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song.i 
Still to the midst of things he htistens on, 
As if we witnessed all already done ; 
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight, 
Not smoke from brightness, but from dark- 
ness — light; 
And truth and fiction with such art compounds, 
We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
If you w ould please the public, deign to hear 
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear ; 
If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
App'aud in thunder at the curtain's fall. 
Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 
And sketch the striking traits of every age ; 
While varying man and varying years unfold 
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told. 
Obseve his simple childhood's dawning days. 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his 

plays ; 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans. 
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens 1 

Behold him Freshman ! forced no more to 

groan 
O'er V^irgil's^ devilish verses and — his own; 
Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse. 
He flies from Tavell's frown to " Fordham's 

Mews ; " 



still younger. Mr. Townsend has the greatest dif- 
ficulties to encounter: but in conquering them he 
will find employment; in having conquered them, 
his reward. I know too well " tlie scribbler's scoff, 
the critic's contumely; " and I am afraid time will 
teach Mr. Townsend to know them better. Those 
who succeed, and those who do not, must bear this 
alike, and it is hard to say which have most of it. 
I trust that Mr. Townsend's share will be from 
envy; — he will soon know mankind well enough 
not to attribute this expression to malice. — [This 
note Byron says was written at Athens before he 
had heard of the death of Cumberland, who died in 
May, 1811. On his return to England Byron wrote 
to a friend: — "There is a sucking epic poet at 
Granta, a Mr. Townsend, protege of the late Cum- 
berland. Did you ever hear of him and his ' Arma- 
geddon'? I think his plan (the man I don't know) 
borders on the sublime ; though, perhaps, the anti- 
cipation of the ' Last Day ' is a little too daring: at 
least, it looks like telling the Almighty what he is 
to do; and might remind an ill-natured person of 
the line — 
' And fools rush in where angels fear to tread.' " 
Mr. Townsend, in 1815, was induced to publish 
eight of the twelve books of which his poem was to 
consist. Their reception realized Byron's ominous 
predictions.] 

1 [There is more of poetry in these verses upon 
Milton than in any other passage throughout the 
paraphrase. — Moo7-e.\ 

2 Harvey, the circulator of the circulation of 
the blood, used to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy 



(Unlucky Tavell! 3 doomed to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,) 4 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain. 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain ; 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash, 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore, 
Yet cursing both — for both have made him 

sore ; 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
The p — X becomes his passage to degrees) ; 
Fooled, pillaged, dunned, he wastes his term 

away. 
And, unexpelled perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
Master of arts ! as hells and clubs^ proclaim. 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter 

name ! 

Launched into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
Sits in the Senate ; gets a son and heir ; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, though he votes, unless when called to 

cheer. 
His son's so sharp — he'll see the dog a peer ! 

Manhood declines — age palsies every limb ; 
He quits the scene — or else the scene quits 

him ; 
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny 

grieves. 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 
Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets. 
O'er hoards diminished by young Hopeful's 

debts ; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons — but to die; 
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please, 



of admiration, and say, " the book had a devil." 
Now, such a character as I am copying would prob- 
ably fling it away also, but rather wish that the 
devil had the book; not from any dislike to the 
poet, but a well-founded horror of hexameters. In- 
deed, the public school penance of " Long and 
Short" is enough to beget an antipathy to poetry 
for the residue of a man's life, and, perhaps, so far 
may be an advantage. 

^ " Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." 
I dare say Mr. Tavell (to whom I mean no affront) 
will understand me; and it is no matter whether 
any one else does or no. — To the above events, 
" quaeque ipse miserrima vidi, et quorum pars mag- 
na fui," all times and terms bear testimony. 

< [The Rev. G. F. Tavell was a fellow and tutor 
of Trinity College, Cambridge, during Byron's res- 
idence, and owed this notice io the zeal with which 
he had protested against his juvenile vagaries. 

5 " Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you 
risk little, and are cheated a good deal. " Club," a 
pleasant purgatory where you lose more, and are 
not supposed to be cheated at all. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



131 



Commending every time, save times like these ; 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot. 
Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot! 

But from the Drama let me not digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please 

you less. 
Though woman weep, and hardest hearts are 

stirred 
When what is done is rather seen than heard. 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all beside, I. here am French — 
Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
In tragic scenes disgusts, though but in show; 
We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
And find small sympathy in being sick. 
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience with a monarch's death ; 
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours or nature bear ? 
A haltered heroine i Johnson sought to slay — 
We saved Irene, but half damned the play, 
And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating times 
Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes ; 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would 

quake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief. 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do, 
W^hose postscripts prate of dyeing "heroines 

blue? "2 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can, 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; ^ 
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong, 
Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 



1 " Irene had to speak two lines with the bow- 
string round her neck ; but the audience cried out 
' Murder! ' and she was obliged to go off the stage 
alive." — Boswell's Johnson. [These two lines 
were afterwards struck out, and Irene was carried 
off, to be put to death behind the scenes.] 

2 In the postscript to the " Castle Sceptre," Mr. 
Lewis tells us, that though blacks were unknown 
in England at the period of his action, yet he has 
made the anachronism to set off the scene : and if 
he could have produced the effect " by making his 
heroine blue," — I quote him — " blue he would 
have made her! " 

3 [In 1706, Dennis, the critic, wrote an " Essay 
on the Operas after the Italian manner, which are 
about to be established on the English Stage; " to 

'show thnt they were more immoral than the most 
licentious play.] 



Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends 
Which Gaul allows, and still Hcsperia lends I 
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies, singers wisely shipped away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rustics earned, and now may beg, their 

bread, 
In all iniquity is grown so nice, 
It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing 

ear 
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, 
Vv'hom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore, 
His anguish doubling by his own " encore ;" 
Squeezed in " Fop's Alley," jostled by the 

beaux, 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes 

of ease 
Till the dropped curtain gives a glad release : 
Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye 

guess ? — 
Because it costs him dear, and makes him 
i dress I 

I So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 

Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools ! 

j Ere scenes were played by many a reverend 

clerk 4 
(What harm, if David danced before the 

ark ?) 5 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry and 

coarse jokes. 
Improving years, with things no longer known. 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame 

Joan, 
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
'Tis strange Benvolio^ suffers such a show;" 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives 

place. 
Oaths, bo.xing, begging, — all, save rout and 

race. 



* " The first theatrical representations, entitled 
' Mysteries and Moralities,' were generally enacted 
at Christmas, by monks (as the only persons who 
could read), and latterly by the clergy and students 
of the universities. The dramatis personae were 
usually Adam, Pater Coelestis, Faith. Vice," etc. 
etc. — See IVarton's History 0/ English Poetry. 

5 Here follows, in the original MS. — 

" Who did what Vestris — yet, at least, cannot, 
And cut his kingly capers sans culotte." 

^ Benvolio does not bet; but every man who 
maintains race-horses is a promoter of all the con 
comitant evils of the turf. Avoiding to bet is a lit 
tie Pharisaical. Is it an exculpation? I think not 
I never yet heard a bawd praised for chastity be- 
cause she herself did not commit fornication. 

'' [For Benvolio the original MS. had " Earl 
Grosvenor; " and for the next couplet — 
" Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place, 

Save gambling — for his Lordship loves a race."] 



132 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Farce followed Comedy, and reached her 
prime 

In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time : 

Mad wag! who pardoned none, nor spared 
the best, 

And turned some very serious things to jest. 

Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, 

Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volun- 
teers : 

" Alas, poor Yorick ! " now for ever mute ! 

Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens. 
When " Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to 

sit 
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
Yes, friend ! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell, 
And bear Swift's motto, " Vive la bagatelle ! " 
Which charmed our days in each ^gean 

clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme.i 
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past. 
Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the 

last; 
But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed,2 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes. 
Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies ;3 
Corruption foiled her, for she feared her 

glance ; 
Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
Yet Chesterfield,'^ whose polished pen inveighs 
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our 

plays ; 



1 [In dedicating the fourth canto of " Childe 
Harold " to his fellow traveller, Hobhouse, Byron 
describes him as " one to whom he was indebted 
for the social advantages of an enlightened friend- 
ship; one whom he had long known and accompa- 
nied far, whom he had found wakeful over his sick- 
ness and kind in his sorrow, glad in liis prosperity 
and firm in his adversity, true in counsel and trusty 
in peril; " — while Hobhouse, in describing a short 
tour to Negroponte, in which his noble friend was 
unable to accompany him, regrets the absence of a 
companion, " who, to quickness of observation and 
ingenuity of remark, united that gay good humor 
which keeps alive the attention under the pressure 
of fatigue, and softens the aspect of every difficulty 
and danger."] 

■- Under Plato's pillow a volume of the Mimes of 
Sophron was found the day he died. — J'l'de Bar- 
thelemi, De Pauw, or Diogenes Laertius, if agree- 
able. De Pauw calls it a jest-book. Cumberland, 
in his Observer, terms it moral, like the sayings of 
Publius Syrus. 

2 The English Act of Parliament regulating and 
restraining theatres was introduced in 1737 by Sir 
Robert Walpole. 

* His speech on the Licensing Act is one of his 
most eloquent efforts. 



Unchecked by megrims of patrician brains, 
And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. 
Repeal that act ! again let Humor roam 
Wild o'er the stage — we've time for tears a* 

home; 
Let "Archer" plant the horns on "Sullen's" 

brows, 
And " Estifania " gull her " Copper "^ spouse : 
The moral's scant — but that may be excused. 
Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 
He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill ;6 
Ay, but Macheath's example — psha! — no 

more ! 
It formed no thieves — the thief was formed 

before ; 
And, spite of puritans and Collier's curse,?' 
Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 
Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men ! 
Nor burn damned Drury if it rise again. 
But why to brain-scorched bigots thus appeal ? 
Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal ? 
For times of fire and fagot let them hope 1 
Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 
As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 
So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 
E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 
Faith cants, perplexed apologist of sin 1 
While the Lord's servant chastens whom he 

loves. 
And Simeon 8 kicks, where Baxter only 

" shoves." 9 

Whom nature guides, so writes, that every 
dunce. 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails. 
And twenty scattered quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let Pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope ; 
Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
For art too rude, for nature too refined. 
Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ;. 



^ Michael Perez, the " Copper Captain," in " Rule 
a Wife and have a Wife." 

6 [Willis was the physician who had charge of 
George III. in the earlier stages of his insanity.] 

^ Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, etc. 
on the subject of the drama, is too well known to 
require further comment. 

•* Mr. Simeon is the very bully of beliefs, and 
castigator of" good works." He is ably supported 
by John Stickles, a laborer in the same vineyard : — 
but I say no more, for, according to Johnny in full 
congregation, " IVo hopes for them as laughs.'''' — 
[The Rev. Charles Simeon, — a zealous Calvinist, 
had several warm disputations with other divines.] 

"* " Baxter's Shove to heavy -a — d Christians " — 
the veritable title of a book once in good repute, 
and likely enough to be so again. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



133 



The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now 

detest ; 
Proscribed not only in the world polite. 
But even too nasty for a city knight ! 

Peace to Swift's faults ! his wit hath made 
them pass. 
Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras ! 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
WHio from our couplet lopped to final feet ; 
Nor less in merit than the longer line. 
This measure moves a favorite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
P'ormed, save in ode, to bear a serious strain, 
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of 

weight. 
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war. 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime. 
Are curbed too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

But many a skilful judge abhors to see. 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 'tis hard 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts 
confine. 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
To gain the paltry suffrage of" correct?" 
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, 
To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 

Ye, who seek finished models, never cease, 
By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen, 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, any thing but 

chaste; 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
Though you and I, who eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low. 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
Detect with fingers, in default of ears. 

In sooth I do not know, or greatly care 
To learn, who our first English strollers were ; 
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art. 
Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 
But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days. 
There's pomp enough, if little else in plays ; 
Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol 
stone. 

Old comedies still meet with much applause. 
Though too licentious for dramatic laws: 



At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 

Whate'er their follies, and their faults be- 
side. 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English muse, 
And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could 

claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, 
If all our bards, more patient of delay, 
Would stop, like Pope,^ to polish by the way? 

Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
Overthrow whole quartos with their quires of 

faults. 
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
And prove our marble with too nice a nail ! 
Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
He only thought, but you would make, us mad ! 

But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth. 
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth ; 
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet, 
And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please, 
The name of p(^t may be got with ease, 
So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
Shall ever turn your head to any use; 
Write but like' Wordsworth, live beside a 
Lake,^ 

1 [" They support Pope, I see, in the Quarterly," 
— wrote Byron in 1820, from Ravenna — "it is a 
sin, and a shame, and a datnnation, that Pope!! 
should require it: but he does. Those miserable 
mountebanks of the day, the poets, disgrace them- 
selves, and deny God, in running down Pope, the 
most fauldcss of poets." Again, in 1821 : — " Nei- 
ther time, nor distance, nor grief, nor age, can ever 
diminish my veneration for him who is the great 
moral poet of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, 
and of all stages of existence. The delight of my 
boyhood, the study of my manhood, perhaps (if 
allowed to me to attain it) he may be the conso- 
lation of my age. His poetry is the book of life. 
Without canting, and yet without neglecting relig- 
ion, he has assembled all that a good and great man 
can gather together of moral wisdom clothed in con- 
summate beauty. Sir William Temple obsei-ves, 
' that of all the members of mankind that live within 
the compass of a thousand years, for one man that 
is born capable of making a great poet, there may 
be a thousafid born capable of making as great 
generals and ministers of state as any in story.* 
Here is a statesman's opinion of poetry; it is hon- 
orable to him and to the art. Such a ' poet of a 
thousand years ' was Pope. A thousand years will 
roll away before such another can be hoped for in 
our literature. But it can want them : he is bijji- 
self a literature."] 

2 [" That this is the age of the decline of English 



134 



HINTS PROM HORACE. 



And keep your bushy locks a year from 

Blake ;i 
Then print your book, once more return to 

town, 
And boys shall hunt your bardship up and 

down. 

Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, 
To purge in spring — like Bayes '-^ — before I 

write ? 
If this precaution softened not my bile, 
I know no scribbler with a madder style; 
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
I'll labor gratis as a grinder's wheel. 
And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel. 
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 



poetry, will be doubted by few who have calmly con- 
sidered the subject. That there are men of genius 
among the present poets, makes little against the 
fact; because it has been well said, that, 'next to 
him who forms the taste of his country, the greatest 
genius is he who corrupts it.' No one has ever de- 
nied genius to Marini, who corrupted, not merely 
the taste of Italy, but that of all Europe, for nearly 
a century. The great cause of the present deplor- 
able state of English poetry is to be attributed to 
that absurd and systematic depreciation of Pope, in 
which, for the last few years, there has been a kind 
of epidemic concurrence. The Lakers and their 
school, and everybody else with ^eir school, and 
even Moore without a school, and dilettanti lec- 
turers at institutions, and elderly gentlemen who 
translate and imitate, and young ladies who listen 
and repeat, and baronets who draw indifferent fron- 
tispieces for bad poets, and noblemen who lei them 
dine with thetn in the country, the small body of 
the wits and the great body of the blues, have latterly 
united in a depreciation, of which their forefathers 
would have been as much ashamed as their children 
will be. In the mean time what have we got in- 
stead? The Lake School, which began with an epic 
poem ' written in six weeks,' (so ' Joan of Arc ' pro- 
claimed herself,) and finished with a ballad com- 
posed in twenty years, as ' Peter Bell's ' creator 
takes care to inform the few who will inquire. 
What have we got instead? A deluge of flimsy 
and unintelligible romances, imitated from Scott 
and myself, who have both made the best of our 
bad materials and erroneous system. What have 
we got instead? Madoc, which is neither an epic 
nor any thing else, Thalaba, Kehama, Gebir, and 
such gibberish, written in all metres, and in no lan- 
guage." — Byron's Letters, 1819.] 

' As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and bet- 
ter paid, and may, like him, be one day a senator, 
having a better qualification than one half of the 
heads he crops, namely, — independence. 

* [" Bayes. If I am to write familiar things, as 
sonnets to Armida, and the like, I make use of 
stewed prunes only ; but when I have a grand de- 
sign in hand, I ever take physic and let blood: for 
when you have pure swiftness of thought, and fiery 
flights of fancy, you must have a care of the pen- 
sive part. In fine, you must purge." — The Re- 
k»arsal.'\ 



From Horace show the pleasing paths of song. 
And from my own example — what is wrong. 

Though modern practice sometimes differs 
quite, 
'Tis just as well to think before you write; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read, 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learned the duty which he owes 
To friends and country, and to pardon foes ; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest ; 
Who takes our laws and worship as they are, 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar; 
In practice, rather than loud precept, w ise, 
Bids not his tongue, but heart philosophize: 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse. 
As joint e.xemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well fold, 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will 

hold 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 

Unhappy Greece 1 thy sons of ancient days 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
Whose generous children narrowed not their 

hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts- 
Our boys (save those whom public schools 

compel 
To " long and short" before they're taught to 

spell) 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
" A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
Babe of a city birth 1 from sixpence take 
The third, how much will the remainder 

make ? — 
"A groat." — "Ah, bravo! Dick hath done 

the sum ! 
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 

They whose young souls receive this rust 
betimes, 
'Tis clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
Who hides all verses from his children's sight ; 
For poets (says this sage,3 and many more,) 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old 



3 I have not the original by m,e, but the Itallin 
translation runs as follows: — "E una cosa a rni:> 
credere molto stravagante, che un padre desideri, o 
permetta, che suo figliuolo, coltivi e perfezioni questo 
talento." A little further on: " Si trovano di rado 
nel Parnaso le miniere d' oro e d' argento." — Edii- 
cazione dei Fa)tci7tlli del Signor Locke. [" If 
the child have a poetic vein, it is to me the strangest 
thing in the world, that the father should desire or 
suffer it to be cherished or improved." — ^^ It is very 
seldom seen, that any one discovers mines of gold 
or silver on Parnassus."] 



A 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



135 



Discovers little silver, and less gold, 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Is poor as Irus.i or an Irish mine.- 

Two objects always should the poet move, 
Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
P'or our remembrance your didactic line; 
Redundance places memory on the rack, 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when taught to look like 
truth. 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth: 
Expect no credit for too wondrous tales. 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales 1 

Young men with aught but elegance dis- 
pense; 

Maturer years require a little sense. 

To end at once ; — that bard for all is fit 

Who mingles well instruction with his wit ; 

For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erfiow 

The patronage of Paternoster-row; 

His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall 
pass 

(Who ne'er despises books that bring him 
brass) ; 

Through three long weeks the taste of Lon- 
don lead. 

And cross St. George's Channel and the 
Tweed. 

But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown 
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone. 
And wayward voices, at their owner's call. 
With all his best endeavors, only squall ; 
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the 

spark,3 
And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their 

mark.4 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's 
view 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
But pardon equally to books or men. 
The slips of human nature and the pen. 



' " Iro pauperior: " this is the same beggar who 
boxed with Ulysses for a pound of kid's fry, which 
he lost, and half a dozen teeth besides. — See Odys- 
sey, b. i8. 

2 The Irish gold mine of Wicklow, which yields 
just ore enough to swear by, or gild a bad guinea. 

3 [This couplet is amusingly characteristic of that 
mixture of fun and bitterness with which their author 
sometimes spoke in conversation; so much so, that 
those who knew him might almost fancy they hear 
him utter the words. — Moore.\ 

♦ As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, 
to whom he was under great obligations — "And Ho- 
mer (dam^t hiin .') calls" — it may be presumed 
that anybody or any thing may be damned in verse 
by poetical license; and, in case of accident, I beg 
leave to plead so illustrious a precedent. 



Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend. 
Despises all advice too much to mend, 
But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
Let Havard's ^ fate o'ertake him, who, for once. 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 
At first none deemed it his; but when his name 
Announced the fact — what then? — it lost its 

fame. 
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to 

doze. 
In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the 

light. 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, 
But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance, or 

choice. 
Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice, 
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise; 
Few reach the summit which before you lies. 
Our. church and state, our courts and camps, 

concede 
Reward to very moderate heads indeed I 
In these plain common sense will travel far; 
All are not Erskines who mislead the bar : 
But poesy between the best and worst 
No medium knows ; you must be last or first ; 
For middling poets' miserable volumes 
Are damned alike by gods, and men, and col- 

umns.6 



'' For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see 
" Davies's Life of Garrick." I believe it is " Regu- 
lus," or " Charles the First." The moment it was 
known to be his the theatre thinned, and the book- 
seller refused to give the customary sum for the 
copyright. — [Charles the First was the name of 
Havard's tragedy.] 

« [Here, in the original MS., we find the follow- 
ing couplet and note: — 

" Though what ' Gods, men, and columns ' interdict, 
The Devil and Jeffrey pardon — in a Pict.* 



* " The Devil and Jeffrey are here placed anti- 
thetically to gods and men, such being their usual 
position, and their due one — according to the face- 
tious saying, ' if God won't take you, the Devil 
must; ' and I am sure no one durst object to his 
taking the poetry which, rejected by Horace, is 
accepted by Jeffrey. That these gentlemen are in 
some cases kinder, — the one to countrymen, and 
the other from his odd propensity to prefer evil to 
good, — than the ' gods, men, and columns ' of Hor- 
ace, may be seen by a reference to the review of 
Campbell's ' Gertrude of Wyoming; ' and in No. 31 
of the Edinburgh Review (given to me the other day 
by the captain of an English frigate off Salamis), 
there is a similar concession to the mediocrity of 
Jamie Graham's ' British Georgics.' It is fortunate 



136 



HINTS FROM HORACE, 



Again, my Jeffrey ! — as that sound inspires, 
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel 
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, 
Or mild Eclectics,^ when some, worse than 

Turks, 
Would rob poor Faith to decorate " good 
works." 



^ To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have 
to return thanks for the fervor of that charity which, 
in 1809, induced them to express a hope that a thing 
then published by me might lead to certain conse- 
quences, which, although natural enough, surely 
came but rashly from reverend lips. I refer them 
to their own pages, where they congratulated them- 
selves on the prospect of a tilt between Mr. Jeflrey 
and myself, from which some great good was to ac- 
crue, provided one or both were knocked on the 
head. Having survived two years and a half, those 
" Elegies " which they were kindly preparing to re- 
view, I have no peculiar gusto to give them " so 
joyful a trouble," except, indeed, " upon compul- 
sion, Hal; " but if, as David says in the " Rivals," 
it should come to" bloody sword and gun fighting," 
we "won't run, will we. Sir Lucius?" 1 do not 
know what I had done to these Eclectic gentlemen : 
my works are their lawful perquisite, to be hewn in 
pieces like Agag, if it seem meet unto them : but 

for Campbell, that his fame neither depends on his 
last poem, nor the puff of the Edinburgh Review. 
The catalogues of our English are also less fastidi- 
ous than the pillars of the Roman librarians. — A 
word more with the author of ' Gertrude of Wyom- 
ing.' At the end of a poem, and even of a couplet, 
we have generally ' that unmeaning thing we call 
a thought; ' so Mr. Campbell concludes with a 
thought in such a manner as to fulfil the whole^ of 
Pope's prescription, and be as ' unmeaning' as the 
best of his brethren: 

' Because I may not stain with grief 
The death-song of an Indian chief.' 
When I was in the fifth form, I carried to my master 
the translation of a chorus in Prometheus, wherein 
was a pestilent expression about ' staining a voice,' 
which met with no quarter. Little did 1 think that 
Mr. Campbell would have adopted my fifth form 
'sublime' — at least in so conspicuous a situation. 
' Sorrow' has been ' dry' (in proverbs), and ' wet,' 
(in sonnets), this many a day; and now it ' stains,' 
and stains a sound, of all feasible things! To be 
sure, death-songs might have been stained with that 
same grief to very good purpose, if Outalissi had 
clapped down his stanzas on wholesome paper for 
the Edinburgh Evening Post, or any other given 
hyperborean gazette; or if the said Outalissi had 
been troubled with the slightest second sight of his 
own notes embodied on the last proof of an over- 
charged quarto: but as he is supposed to have been 
an improvisatore on this occasion, and probably to 
the last tune he ever chanted in this world, it would 
have done him no discredit to have made his exit 
with a mouthful of common sense. Talking of 
'staining,' as (Caleb Quotem says) ' puts me in 
mind' of a certain couplet, which Mr. Campbell 
will find in a writer for whom he, and his school, 
have no small contempt: — 
' E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, 
The last and greatest art — the art to blot .' ' "] 



Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim .- 
My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase! 
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
"Alas! I cannot strike at v/retched kernes.' "■^ 
Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign 
A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine ? 
Dear, d — d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 
Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's 

wrongs 
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, 
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 
What ! not a word ! — and am I then so low ? 
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent? 
No wit for nobles, dunces by descent ? 
No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name,3 
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ? 
Is it for this on Dion I have stood, 
And thought of Homer less than Holyrood? 
On shore of Euxine or yEgean sea, 
My hate, untravelled, fondly turned to thee. 
Ah ! let me cease ; in vain my bosom burns, 
From Corydon unkind Alexis turns : •* 
Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego. 
Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 
What then ? — Edina starves some lanker son, 
To write an article thou canst not shun ; 



why they should be in such a hurry to kill off their 
author, 1 am ignorant. " The race is not always 
to the swift, nor the battle to the strong: " and now, 
as these Christians have" smote me on one cheek," 
I hold them up the other; and, in return for their 
good wishes, give them an opportunity of repeating 
them. Had any other set of men expressed sucli 
sentiments, I should have smiled, and left them to 
the " recording angel; ".but from the pharisees of 
Christianity decency might be expected. I can as- 
sure these bretb.ren, that, publican and sinner as I 
am, I would not have treated " mine enemy's dog 
thus." To show them the superiority of my broth- 
erly love, if ever the Reverend Messrs. Simeon or 
Ramsden should be engaged in such a conflict as 
that in which they requested me to fall, I hope they 
may escape with being "winged" only, and that 
Heaviside may be at hand to extract the ball. — 
[The following is the passage in the Eclectic Re- 
view of which Byron speaks: — • 

" If the noble lord and the learned advocate have 
the courage requisite to sustain their mutual in- 
sults, we shall probably soon hear the explosions of 
another kind of /i7/^r-war after the fashion of the 
ever memorable duel which the latter is said to have 
fought, or seemed to fight, with ' Little Moore.' 
We confess there is sufficient provocation, if not in 
the critique, at least in the satire, to urge a ' man 
of honor' to defy his assailant to mortal combat. 
Of this we shall no doubt hear more in due time."] 

2 [Made t A.] 

3 [See the critique of the Edinburgh Review on 
" Hours of Idleness," vol. i. p. 188.] 

* Invenies alium, si te hie fastidit Alexin, 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



137 



Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be 

touncl, 
As bold in Billingsgate, though less renowned. 

As if at table some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 
As oil in lieu of butter men decry, 
And poppies please not in a modern pie ; 
If all such mixtures then be half a crime. 
We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
Mere roast and boiled no epicure invites ; 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun : 
Will he \vho swims not to the river run ? 
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson 1 ere they dare to box. 
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
None reach expertness without years of toil ; 
But fiftv dunces can, with perfect ease. 
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they 

please. 
Why not? — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate, 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs. 
To all their income, and to — twice its tax ; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault. 
Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt? 

Thus think " the mob of gentlemen ; " but 

you. 
Besides all this, must have some genius too. 
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule, 
And print not piping hot from Southey's school. 
Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 
I trust, will spare us for at least nine year*. 
And hai-k 'ye, Southey ! 2 pray — but don't be 

vexed — 
Burn all your last three works — and half the 

next. 



^ [Byron's taste for boxing brought him ac- 
quainted, at an early period, with this distinguished 
professor of the pugilistic art: for whom, through- 
out life, he continued to entertain a sincere regard. 
In a note to the eleventh canto of Don Juan, he 
calls him " his old friend, and corporeal pastor and 
master."] 

2 Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to 
his tail in the " Curse of Kehama," maugre the 
neglect of Madoc, etc., and has in one instance had 
a wonderful effect. A literary friend of mine, walk- 
ing out one lovely evening last summer, on the 
eleventh bridge of the Paddington canal, was 
alarmed by the cry oT "one in jeopardy:" he 
rushed along, collected a body of Irish haymakers 
(supping on butter-milk in an adjacent paddock), 
procured three rakes, one eel-spear, and a landing- 
net, and at last (horresco referens) pulled out — his 
own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for 
ever, and so was a large quarto wherewith he had 
taken the leap, which proved, on inquiry, to have 
been Mr. Southey's last work. Its " alacrity of 
sinking " was so great, that it has never since been 



But why this vain advice ? once published, 

books 
Can never be recalled — from pastry-cooks! 
Though " Madoc," with "Pucelle,"8 instead 

of punk. 
May travel back to Quito — on a trunk ! ^ 

heard of; though some maintain that it is at this 
moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry 
premises, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's 
inquest brought in a verdict of" Felo de bibliopola" 
against a " quarto unknown;" and circumstantial 
evidence being since strong against the " Cur.se of 
Kehama" (of which the above words are an exact 
description), it will be tried by its peers next ses- 
sion, in Grub Street. — Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, 
Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus, Exodia, Epigoniad, 
Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Rod- 
erick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of 
the twelve jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, 
and the bellman of St. Sepulchre's. The same ad- 
vocates, pro and con, will be employed as are now 
engaged in Sir F. Burdett's celebrated cause in the 
Scotch courts. The public anxiously await the 
result, and all live publishers will be subpoenaed as 
witnesses. — But Mr. Southey has published the 
" Curse of Kehama," — an inviting title to quibblers. 
By the by, it is a good deal beneath Scott and Camp- 
bell, and not much above Southey, to allow the 
booby Ballantyne to entitle them, in the Edinburgh 
Annual Register (of which, by the by, Southey is 
editor) " the grand poetical triumvirate of the day." 
But, on second thoughts, it can be no great degree 
f praise to be the one-eyed leaders of the blind, 
though they might as well keep to themselves 
" Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," which must 
sadly discomfit poor Southey's unsaleables. Poor 
Southey, it should seem, is the " Lepidus" of this 
poetical triumvirate. I am only surprised to see 
him in such good company. 
" Such things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, 

But wonder how the devil he came there." 
The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition 
of Euclid: " Because, in the triangles DBC, ACB, 
DB is equal to AC, and BC common to both; 
the two sides DB, BC, are equal to the two AC, 
CB, each to each, and the angle DBC is equal to 
the angle ACB: therefore, the base DC is equal 
to the base AB, and the triangle DBC (Mr. 
Southey) is equal to the triangle ACB, the less to 
the gre ter, which is absurd" etc. — The editor 
of the Edinburgh Register will find the rest of the 
theorem hard by his stabling; he has only to cross 
the river; 'tis the first turnpike t'other side " Pons 
Asinorum."* 

^ Voltaire's " Pucelle " is not quite so immaculate 
as Mr. Southey's " Joan of Arc," and yet I sm 
afraid the Frenchman has both more truth and 
poetry too on his side — (they rarely go together) — 
than our patriotic minstrel, whose first essay was in 
praise of a fanatical French strumpet, whose title of 
witch would be correct with the change of the first 
letter. 

* Like Sir Bland Burgess's "Richard;" the 
tenth book of which I read at Malta, on a trunk of 
Eyres, 19 Cockspur Street. If this be doubted, I 
shall buy a portmanteau to quote from. 



* This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of 



138 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Orpheus, vre learn from Ovid and Lem- 
priere, . 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
We'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower ; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren, 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more than constables to keep the peace ; 
Abolished cuckoldom with much applause, 
Called county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reforming 

scythes, 
And served the church — without demanding 

tithes ; 
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest. 
Whose old-established board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince, 
And fighting's been in fashion ever since ; 
And old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartans warred, 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 1 
Though walled Ithome had resisted long, 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevailed, in times of old. 
In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
Then if your verse is what all verse should be, 
And gods were not ashamed on't, why should 
we ? 

The Muse, like mortal females, maybe wooed ; 
In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude ; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, 
Mild as the same upon the second night ; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art. 
Kind Nature always will perform her part ; 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wh, we loathe an artificial strain — 
Yet art and nature joined will win the prize, 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

The youth who trains to ride, or run a race. 
Must bear privations with unruffled face. 
Be called to labor when he thinks to dine. 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight. 
Have followed music through her farthest 
flight ; 



^ [Byron had originally written — 

" As lame as I am, but a better bard."] 



Edinburgh. Ballantyne said it meant the " Bridge 
of Berwick," but Southey claimed it as half English ; 
Scott swore it was the " Brig o' Sterling; " he had 
just passed two King James's and a dozen Doug- 
lasses over it. At last it was decided by Jeffrey, 
that it meant nothing more nor less than the "coun- 
ter of Archy Constable's shop." 



But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
" I've got a pretty poem for the press ; " 
And that's enough ; then write and print so 

fast ; — 
If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last ? 
They storm the types, they publish, one and all, 
They leap the counter, and they leavs the stall. 
Provincial maidens, men of high command, 
Yea, baronets have inked the bloody hand ! 2 
Cash cannot quell them; PoUio^ played this 

prank, 
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank!) 
Not all the living only, but the dead, 
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head ; * 
Damned all their days, they posthumously 

thrive — 
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive ! 
Reviews record this epidemic crime. 
Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme. 
Alas ! woe worth the scribbler ! often seen 
In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine. 
There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot- 
pressed. 
Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 
Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious 

chords 
To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords, 
Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat 

stale. 
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 
Hark to those notes, narcotically soft. 
The cobbler-laureats 5 sing to Capel LoflFt ! 6 



2 [The Red Hand of Ulster, introduced generally 
in a canton, marks the shield of a baronet of the 
United Kingdom.] 

3 [" Pollio." — In the original MS. " Rogers."^ 

* "'Turn quoque,marmorea caput acervicerevulsum 
Gurgite cum medio portans QEagrius Hebrus 
Volveret, Eurydicen vox ipsa, et frigida lingua 
Ah, miseram Eurydicen! anima fugiente voca- 

bat; 
Eurydicen toto referebant flumine ripse." — 

Georgia, iv. 523. 
5 I beg Nathaniel's pardon: he is not a cobbler; 
it is a tailor, but begged Capel LofTt to sink the 
profession in his preface to two pair of panta — 
psha! — of cantos, which he wished the public to 
try on; but the sieve of a patron let it out, and so 
far saved the expense of an advertisement to his 
country customers. — Merry's " Moorfields whine'' 
was nothing to all this. The "Delia Cruscans ' 
were people of some education, and no profession 
but these Arcadians (" Arcades ambo " — bumpkin, 
both) send out their native nonsense without th( 
smallest alloy, and leave ah the shoes and small- 
clothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up Ele- 
gies on Enclosures and Paeans to Gunpowder. Sit- 
ting on a shopboard, they describe fields of battle, 
when the only blood they ever saw was shed from 
the finger; and an "Essay on War" is produced 
by the ninth part of a " poet." 

" And own that ni^ie such poets made a Tate." 
Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope ? and if he 
did, why not take it as his motto ? 

* This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled som» 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



139 



Till, lo ! that modern iVIiiias, as he hears, 

Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 
There lives one druid, who prepares in time 

'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme ; 

Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 

To publish faults which friendship should ex- 
cuse. 

If friendship's nothing, self-regard might teach 

More polislied usage of his parts of speech. 

But what is shame, or what is aught to him ? 

He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim. 

Some fancied slight has roused his lurking 
hate, 

Some folly crossed, some jest, or some debate ; 

Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 

The gathered gall is voided in lampoon. 

Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to 
frown. 

Perhaps your poem may have pleased the 
town : 



excellent shoemakers, and been accessary to the 
poetical undoing of many of the industrious poor. 
Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have 
set all Soinersetshire singing; nor has the malady 
confined itself to one county. Pratt too (who once 
was wiser) has caught the contagion of patronage, 
and decoyed a poor fellow named Blackett into 
poetry; but he died during the operation, leaving 
one child and two volumes of " Remains" utterly 
destitute. The girl, if she don't take a poetical 
twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, may 
do well; but the "tragedies" are as rickety as if 
they had been the offspring of an Earl or a Seato- 
nian prize poet. The patrons of this poor lad are 
certainly answerable for his end; and it ought to be 
an indictable offence. But this is the least they 
have done; for, by a refinement of barbarity, they 
have made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, 
by printing what he would have had sense enough 
never to print himself. Certes these rakers of " Re- 
mains " come under the statute against " resurrec- 
tion men." What does it signify whether a poor 
dear dead dunce is to be stuck up in Surgeons' or 
in Stationers' Hall? Is it so bad to unearth his 
bones as his blunders? Is it not better to gibbet 
his body on a heath, than his soul in an octavo ? 
" We know what we are, but we know not what we 
may be; " and it is to be hoped we never shall 
know, if a man who has passed through life with a 
sort of eclat, is to find himself a mountebank on 
the other side of Styx, and made, like poor Joe 
Blackett, the laughing-stock of purgatory. The 
plea of publication is to provide for the child; now, 
might not some of this " Sutor ultra Crepidam's " 
friends and seducers have done a decent action 
without inveigling Pratt into biography? And then 
his inscription split into so many modicums! — " To 
the Duchess of Somuch, the Right Hon. So-and-So, 
and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, these volumes are, 
etc. etc." — why, this is doling out the "soft milk 
of dedication," in gills, — there is but a quart, and 
he divides it among a dozen. Why, Pratt, hadst 
thou not a puff left? Dost thou think six families 
of distinction can share this in quiet ? There is a 
child, a book, and a dedication: send the girl to her 
grace, the volumes to the grocer, and the dedication 
to the devil. 



If SO, alas ! 'tis nature in the man — 
May Heaven forgive you, for he never can! 
'I'hen be it so ; and may his withering bays 
iiloom fresh in satire, though they fade in 

praise ! 
While his lost songs no more shall steep and 

stink, 
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 
But springing upwards from the sluggish 

mould. 
Be (what they never were before) be — sold ! 
Should some rich bard (but such a monster 

now. 
In modern physics, we can scarce allow). 
Should some pretending scribbler of the 

court. 
Some rhyming peeri — there's plenty of the 

sort — 2 



1 [In the original MS. — 

" Some rhyming peer — Carlisle or Carysfort." 
To which is subjoined this note: — "Of 'John 
Joshua, Earl of Carysfort ' I know nothing at pres- 
ent, but from an advertisement in an old newspaper 
of certain Poems and Tragedies by his Lordship, 
which I saw by accident in the Morea. Being a 
rhymer himself, he will forgive the liberty I take 
with his name, seeing, as he must, how very com- 
modious it is at the close of that couplet; and as 
for what follows and goes before, let him place it to 
the account of the other Thane; since I cannot, 
under these circumstances, augur pro or con the 
contents of his 'foolscap crown octavos.'" — John 
Joshua Proby, first Earl of Carysfort, was joint 
postmaster-general in 1805, envoy to Berlin in 1806, 
and ambassador to Petersburgh in 1807. Besides 
his poems, he published two pamphlets, to show the 
necessity of universal suffrage and short parlia- 
ments. He died in 1828.] 

- Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce 
once more to his notice the sole survivor, the " ul- 
timus Romanorum," the last of the Cruscanti! — 
" Edwin " the " profound," by our Lady of Punish- 
ment! here he is, as lively as in the days of" well 
said Baviad the correct." I thought Fitzgerald had 
been the tail of poesy; but, alas! he is only the pe- 
nultimate. 

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE 
MORNING CHRONICLE. 

" What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
Do some men spoil, who never think! 
And so perhaps you'll say of me. 
In which your readers may agree. 
Still I write on, and tell you why; 
Nothing's so bad, you can't deny, 
But may instruct or entertain 
Without the risk of giving pain, etc. etc. 

ON SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMISTS. 

In tracing of the human mind 
Through all its various courses, 

Though strange, 'tis true, we often find 
It knows not its resources: 

And men through life assume a part 
For which no talents they possess. 



140 



HINTS FROM HORACE, 



All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn 
(Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn !) 
Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 
How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, 
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 
Yet, since 'tis promised at the rector's death. 
He'll risk no living for a little breath. 
Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, 
(The Lord forgive him !) " Bravo ! grand ! di- 
vine ! " 
Hoarse with those praises (which, by flattery 

fed. 
Dependence barters for her bitter bread) , 
He strides and stamps along with creaking 

boot, 
Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 
Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 
As when the dying vicar will not die ! 
Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart; — 
But all dissemblers overact their part. 

Ye, who aspire to " build the lofty rhyme," i 
Believe not all who laud your false " sublime ; " 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and 

say, 
" Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and he answers, 

" Burn!" 
That instant throw your paper in the fire, 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire; 
But (if true bard !) you scorn to condescend. 
And will not alter what you can't defend. 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains, — 2 
We'll have no words — I 've only lost my pains. 

Yet, if you only prize your favorite thought. 
As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
If your cool friend annoy you now and then. 
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 
No matter, throw your ornaments aside, — 
Better let him than all the world deride. 
Give light to passages too much "in shade. 
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've 

made ; 
Your friend's " a Johnson," not to leave one 

word. 
However trifling, which may seem absurd ; 
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills. 
And furnish food for critics,^ or their quills. 

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune, 
Or the sad influence of the angry moon. 



Yet wonder that, with all their art, 

They meet no better with success, etc. etc. 

1 [Milton's Lycidas.] 

2 "Bastard of yonr brains." — Minerva being 
the first by Jupiter's headpiece, and a variety of 
equally unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such 
as Madoc, ete. etc. etc. 

3 " A crust for the critics." — Bayes, in the '^Re- 
hearsal." 



All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues. 
As yawning waiters fly ^ Fitzscribble's » lungs ; 
Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious 

each 
As prelate's homily, or placeman's speech ; 
Long as the last years of a lingering lease, 
When riot pauses until rents increase. 
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented 

ways. 
If by some chance he walks into a well, 
And shouts for succor with stentorian yell, 
" A rope ! help Christians, as ye hope for 

grace ! " 
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; 
Fur there his carcass he might freely fling. 
From frenzy, or the humor of the thing. 
Though this has happened to more bards 

than one ; 
I'll tell you Budgell's story, — and have done. 

Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood) 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
" To die like Cato," 6 leapt into the Thames ! 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang;, or drown. 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he 
leaves 



^ And the "waiters" are the only fortunate peo- 
ple who can " fly " from them ; all the rest, namely, 
the sad subscribers to the " Literary Fund," being 
compelled, by courtesy, to sit out the recitation 
without a hope of exclaiming, " Sic" (that is, by 
choking Fitz with bad wine, or Worse poetry) " me 
servavit Apollo! " 

" [" Fitzscribble," originally " Fitzgerald."] 
G On his table were found these words: " IVhat 
Cato did, and Addison approved, cannot be 
wrong."' But Addison did not " approve; " and if 
he had, it would not have mended the matter. He 
had invited his daughter on the same water-party; 
but Miss Budgell, by some accident, escaped this 
last paternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of 
" Atticus," and the enemy of Pope! — [Eustace 
Budgell, a friend and relative of Addison's, " leapt 
into the Thames " to escape a prosecution, on ac- 
count of forging the v/ill of Dr. Tindal; in which 
Eustace had provided himself with a legacy of two 
thousand pounds. To this Pope alludes — 
" Let Budgell charge low Grub Street on my quill, 
And write whate'er he please — except my will." 
" We talked (says Boswell) of a man's drowning 
himself. — Johnson. ' I should never think it time 
to make away with myself.' I put the case of Eus- 
tace Budgell, who was accu.sed of forging a will, and 
sunk himself in the Thames, before the trial of its 
authenticity came on. ' Suppose, Sir,' said I, ' that 
a man is absolutely sure that, if he lives a few days 
longer, he shall be detected in a fraud, the conse- 
quence of which will be utter disgrace, and expul- 
sion from society.' Johnson. ' Then, Sir, let him 
go abroad to a distant country; let him go to some 
place where he is not known. Don't let him go to 
the devil, whare he is known.' "] 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



141 



And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
Ihe 'glory of that death they freely choose. 

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse ; 
Dosed 1 with vile drams on Sunday he was 
found, 

1 If" dosed with," etc. be censured as low, I he? 
leave to refer to the original for something still 
lower; and if any reader will translate " Minxerit 
in patrios cineres," etc. into a decent couplet, I will 
insert said couplet in lieu of the present. 



Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 

And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage — 

Feared like a bear just bursting from his 

cage. 
If free, all fly his versifying fit, 
Fatal at once to simpleton or wit. 
But ///';//, unhappy! whom he seizes, — him 
He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 
Probes to the quick where'er he makes his 

breach. 
And gorges like a lawyer — or a leech. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



" Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas 

Immolat, et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit."_ 
M,neid, lib. xii. 



[The Curse of Minerva was written at Athens m i8ii. It was prompted by Byron's indignation at 
Lord Elgin, who had just carried from Greece a large collection of antique sculptures torn from the Par- 
chenon and other edifices. This Collection was purchased in i8i6 by the British Government and placed 
in the British Museum. In justice to Lord Elgin it may be said with truth that he rescued these precious 
relics of ancient art from barbarism and decay, and placed them where they are likely to be preserved, 
admired, and studied for ages to come. 

The first authentic edition of The Curse of Minerva was published in 1828, but Byron speaks in a 
letter, dated March, 1816, of a miserable and stolen copy printed in some magazine. The first four 
paragraphs were, however, printed as the beginning of the third canto of the Corsair.] 



Athens, Capuchin Convent, ) 
March 17, 181 1. \ 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ; 
O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he 

throws 
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows ; 
On old .^gina's rock and Hydra's isle 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered .Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing 

glance. 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of 

heaven ; 



Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep. 
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
When, Athens ! here thy wisest looked his last. 
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray. 
That closed their murdered sage's i latest day I 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour, 
The land where Phoebus never frowned be- 
fore ; 
But ere he sunk below Citheron's head. 
The cup of woe was quaffed — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him that scorned to fear or fly, 
I Who lived and died as none c an live or die. 

1 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before 
sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the 
, entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went 
i down. 



142 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
The que-^n of night asserts her silent reign ; i 
No murky vapor, herald of the storm. 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams 

play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And bright around, with quivering beams be- 
set. 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scattered dark and wide. 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,2 
And sad and sombre mid the holv calm, 
Near Theseus' fane, yon soHtarv palm ; 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
And dull were his that passed them heedless 
by.3 

Again the ^gean, heard no more afar. 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold. 
Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle. 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to 
smile. 

As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
I marked the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, 
Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore ; 
Oft as the matchless dome I turned to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
The past returned, the present seemed to cease. 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 

Hours rolled along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gained the centre of her softest sky ; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanished god : 
But chiefly, Pallas 1 thine ; when Hecate's 

glare. 
Checked by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race. 
When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
And Pallas hailed me in her own abode ! 



1 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than 
in our own country; the days in winter are longer, 
but in summer of less duration. 

- The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the 
palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far 
from the Temple of Theseus between which and 
the tree the wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream is 
indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. 

3 [The Temple of Theseus is the most perfect 
ancient edifice in the world. In this fabric, the 
most enduring stability, and a simplicity of design 
peculiarly striking, are united with the highest ele- 
gance and accuracy of workmanship. — Hobliouse.\ 



Yes, 'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! how 

changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
Not such as erst, by her divine command. 
Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand : 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
Her idle aegis bore ho Gorgon now ; 
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seemed weak and shaftless e'en to mortal 

glance ; 
The olive branch, which still she deigned to 

clasp. 
Shrunk from her touch, and withered in her 

grasp ; 
And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky. 
Celestial tears bedimmed her large blue eye; 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow. 
And mourned his mistress with a shriek of 

woe! 

" Mortal ! " — 'twas thus she spake — " that 

blush of sham.e 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free. 
Now honored less by all, and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing ? — look 

around. 
Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
'Scaped from the ravage of the Tui k and Goth, 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both.4 
Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain : 
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorned,^ 
That Adrian reared when drooping Science 

mourned. 
What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer 

came 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name : 
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
Below, his name — above, behold his deeds! 
Be ever hailed with equal honor here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
So when the lion quits his fell repast. 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : 
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their 

own. 
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 



* [In the original MS. — 
" Ah, Athens ! scarce escaped from Turk and Goth, 
Hell sends a paltry Scotchman worse than both. "J 

■'' This is spoken of the city in general, and not 
of the Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupi- 
ter Olymplus, by some supposed the Pantheon, was 
finished by Hadrian; sixteen columns are standing, 
of the most beautiful marble and architecture. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



143 



Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are 

crossed : 
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
Another name with Ins pollutes my shrine : 
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine ! 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." 1 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply. 
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : 
" Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 
Frown not on England ; England owns him 

not: 
Athena, no 1 thy plunderer was a Scot. 
Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair Phyles' 

towers 
Survey Boeotia ; — Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land 2 
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held com- 
mand ; 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined 
To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth. 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
Each genial influence nurtured to resist; 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy 

plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain. 
Till, burst at length, each watery head o'er- 

flows. 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
Then thousand schemes of petulance and 

pride 
Despatch her scheming children far and 

wide : 
Some east, some west, some ever)rwhere but 

north. 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
And thus — accursed be the day and year! — 
She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, 
As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar 'birth ; 
So may her few, the lettered and the brave. 
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave. 
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land. 
And shine like children of a happier strand ; 
As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place, 
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched 



" Mortal ! " the blue-eyed maid resumed, 
" once more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 



^ His lordship's name, and that of one who no 
l»nger bears it, are carved conspicuously on the 
Parthenon; above, in a part not far distant, are the 
torn remnants of the basso relievos, destroyed in a 
vain attempt to remove them. 

- " Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan 
O'Eiallaghan. 



Though fallen, alas! this vengeance yet is 

mine. 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest. 

" First on the head of him who did this deed 
My curse shall light, — on him and all his seed. 
Without one spark of intellectual fire. 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
Believe him bastard of a brighter race : 
Still with his hireling artists let him prate, 
And folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell. 
Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell : 
To sell, and make — may Shame record the 

day! — 
The state receiver of his pilfered prey. 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard. West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best. 
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 
And own himself an infant of fourscore, 3 
Be all the bruisers culled from all St. Giles' 
That art and nature may compare their styles ; 
While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
And marvel at his lordship's ' stone shop ' 4 

there. 
Round the thronged gate shall sauntering cox- 
combs creep. 
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; 
While many a languid maid, with longing 

sigh, 
On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
The room with transient glance appears to 

skim, 
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
Mourns o'er the difference of now and then ; 
Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper 

men ! ' 
Draws sly comparisons of these with those. 
And envies Lai's all her Attic beaux. 
When shall a modern maid have swains lije 

these ! 
Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew. 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 
In silent indignation mixed with grief. 
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thiel 
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardoned in the dus/ 
May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 
Linked with the fool that fired the Ephesiau 

dome. 
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 

3 Mr. West, on seeing the " Elgin Collection " 
(I suppose we shall Iiear of the " Abershaw " and 
"Jack Shephard" collection), declared himself" a 
mere tyro" in art. 

* Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when the marbles 
were first exhibited at Elgin House; he asked if it 
was not " a stone shop ?^' — He was right; it U *. 
shoo, 



144 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
In many a branding page and burning line ; 
Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed, 
Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
Fixed statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
Hers v^'ere the deeds that taught her lawless 

son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war. i 
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
Or break the compact which herself had 

made; 
Far from such councils, from the faithless 

field 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield : 
A fatal gift that turned your friends to stone, 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

" Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy 
race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base ; 
Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, 
And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

" Look on your Spain ! — she clasps the 

hand she hates. 
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her 

gates. 
Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and 

fell. 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally. 
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 

" Look last at home — ye love not to look 

there 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair: 
Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls. 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine 

prowls. 
See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 
' Blest paper credit ; ' - who shall dare to sing ? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas plucked each premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdained to hear; 



' [The affair of Copenhagen.] 
2 " Blest paper credit! last and best supply, 
That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly! " 

Poie, 



But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas! too late: 
Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign ' log.' 
Thus hailed your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

" Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour; 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanished power ; 
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a 

dream. 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 
And pirates barter all that's left behind.^ 
No more the hirelings, purchased near and 

far, 
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 
The idle merchant on the useless quay 
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear 

away ; 
Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
Rot piecemeal on his own encumbered 

shores : 
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 
And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming 

doom. 
Then in the senate of your sinking state, 
Show me the man whose counsels may have 

weight. 
Vain is each voice where tones could once 

command ; 
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land : 
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 
And light with maddening hands the mutual 

pile. 

" 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in 

vain ; 
The Furies seize her abdicated reign : 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling 

brands, 
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains. 
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear hef 

chains. 
The bannered pomp of war, the glittering files, 
O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiu s : 
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
The hero bounding at his country's call, 
The glorious death that consecrates his fail, 
Swell the young heart with visionary charms. 
And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
But know, a lesson you may yet be taught, 
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight. 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 

3 The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. 



THE WALTZ. 



145 



But when the field is fought, the battle won, 
Though drenched with gore, his woes are but 

begun. 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
The slaughtered peasant and the ravished 

dame, 
The rit^ed mansion and the foe-reaped field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled 

Thames ? 
Nay, frown not, Albion! for the torch was 

thine 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine : 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life, 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the 

strife." 1 



["The beautiful but barren Hymettus, the 



whole coast of Attica, her hills and mountains, 
Pentelicus, Anchesmus, Pliiiopapus, etc. etc. are 
in themselves poetical; and would be so if tiie name 
of Athens, of Athenians, and her very ruins, were 
swept from the earth. Iku, am I to be told that 
the " nature " of Attica would be more poetical 
without the "art" of the Acropolis? of the Tem- 
ple of 'I'heseus? and of the still all Greek and glori- 
ous monuments of her exquisitely artificial genius.'' 
Ask the traveller what strikes him as most poetical, 
the Parthenon, or the rock on which it stands? The 
COLUMNS of Cape Colonna, or the Cape itself? The 
rocks at the foot of it, or the recollection that Fal- 
coner's ship was bidged upon them? There are a 
thousand rocks and capes far more picturesque than 
those of the Acropolis and Cape Sunium in them- 
selves. But it is the "^r^," the columns, the 
temples, the wrecked vessel, which give them their 
antique and their modern poetry, and not the spots 
themselves. I opposed, and will ever oppose, the 
robbery of ruins from Athens, to instruct the Eng- 
lish in sculpture; but why did I do so? The ruins 
are as poetical in Piccadilly as they were in the 
Parthenon; but the Parthenon and its rock are less 
so without them. Such is the poetry of art." — 
Byroii's Letters, 1821.] 



THE WALTZ: AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 



'Qualis in Eurotse ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, 
Exercet Diana chores." Virgil. 

'' Such on Eurota's banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems: and so she charms the sight. 
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads." 

Dkyden's Virgil. 



[This trifle was written at Cheltenham in the autumn of 1812, and published anonymously in the 
spring of the following year. It was not very well received at the time by the public; and Byron was 
by no means anxious that it should be considered as his handiwork. " I hear," he says, in a letter to a 
friend, " that a certain malicious publication on waltzing is attributed to me. This report, I suppose, 
you will take care to contradict; as the author, I am sure, will not like that I should wear his cap and 
bells."] ^ 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 



Sir, — I AM a country gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a parliament-man for a 
certain borough; having had the offer of as many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812.1 
But I was all for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged 
maid of honor. We lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife and I were invited by 
the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no 
harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, as they call it, marketable) age, and having 
i'^sides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old chariot, — of 

1 State of the poll (last day), 5. 



146 



THE WALTZ. 



which, by the by, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second- 
hand barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if 1 could drive, but never see the inside 
— that place being reserved for the Honorable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and opera-knight. 
Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of 
the last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or, 
at most, cotillions, reels, and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on arriv- 
ing, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentle- 
man I never set eyes on before ; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning 

round, and round, and round, to a d d see-saw up-and-down sort of a tune, that reminded me of the 

" Black joke," only more " affettuoso," till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. 
By and by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down: — but no; with Mrs. H 's hand 
on his shoulder, " qiiam fnmiliariter " ^ (as Terence said, when I was at school), they walked about a 
minute, and then at it again, like two cockchafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what all this 
meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard but in the 
Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach), said, " Lord! 
Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are valtzingr " or waltzing (I forget which) ; and then up she got, and 
her mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper time. Now, that I know what 
it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, and four times over- 
turned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morning). Indeed, so much do I 
like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in honor of all 
the victories (but till lately I have had little practice in that way) , I sat down, and with the aid of William 
Fitzgerald, Esq., 2 and a few hints from Dr. Busby (whose recitations I attend, and am monstrous fond 
of Master Busby's manner of delivering his father's late successful " Drury Lane Address,") I composed 
the following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the public; whom, nevertheless, I 
heartily despise, as well as the critics, 

I am, Sir, yours, etc. etc. 

Horace Hornem. 

1 My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what he never remembered; but I 
bought my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shilling bank token, after much hagghng for 
the even sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, being all for the memory of Perceval and " No 
popery," and quite regretting the downfall of the pope, because we can't burn him any more. 

2 [The " hoarse Fitzgerald " of the opening lines of" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers."] 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet ! 1 whose 
charms 

Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 

Terpsichore ! — too long misdeemed a maid — 

Reproachful term — bestowed but to up- 
braid — 

Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness 
shine, 

The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude ; 

Mocked, yet triumphant; sneered at, unsub- 
dued ; 

Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 

If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 

Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no 
shield ; 

Dance forth — sa7is armour thou shalt take 
the field, 



And own — impregnable to most assaults, 
Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz." 

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young 

hussar, 
The whiskered votary of waltz and war, 
His night d';votes, despite of spur and boots; 
A sight unmatched since Orpheus and his 

brutes : 
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! — beneath whose 

banners 
A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's"^ 

fame. 



1 " Glance their many-twinkling feet." — Gray. 



- To rival Lord VVellesley's, or his nephew s, as 
the reader pleases : — the one gained a pretty 
woman, whom he deserved, by nshting for; and 
the other has been fighting in the Peninsula many 
a long day, " by Shrewsbury clock," without gaining 
any thing in thai country but the title of " the Great 



THE WALTZ. 



147 



Cocked — fired — and missed his man — but 

gained his aim ; 
Hail, moving Muse ! to whom the fair one's 

breast 
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
To " energize the object I pursue," i 
And give both Belial and his dance their 

due! 

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and 

wine), 
Long be thine import from all duty free, 
And hock itself be less esteemed than thee; 
In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison 

swims. 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh, Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 



Lord," and " the Lord; " which savors of profana- 
tion, having been hitherto applied only to that Be- 
ing to whom " Te Deiims''' for carnage are the 
rankest blasphemy. — It is to be presumed the gen- 
eral will one day return to his Sabine farm; there 

" To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain! " 

The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in 
a summer; we do more — we contrive both to con- 
quer and lose them in a shorter season. If the 
"great Lord's" Cincituiation progress in agricul- 
ture be no speedier than the proportional average 
of time in Pope's couplet, it will, according to the 
farmers' proverb, be " ploughing with dogs." 

By the by — one of this illustrious person's new 
titles is forgotten — it is, however, worth remember- 
ing — " Salvador del nniiido ! " credite, posteri ! 
If this be the appellation annexed by the inhabitants 
of the Peninsula to the liame of a man who has not 
yet saved them — query — are they worth saving, 
even in this world? for, according to the mildest 
modifications of any Christian creed, those three 
words make the odds much against tliem in the 
next. — " Saviour of the world," quotha! — it were 
to be wished that he, or any one else, could save a 
corner of it — his country. Yet this stupid mis- 
nomer, although it shows the near connection be- 
tween superstition and impiety, so far has its use, 
that it proves there can be little to dread from those 
Catholics (inquisitorial Catholics too) who can con- 
fer such an appellation on a Protestant. I suppose 
next year he will be entitled the " Virgin Mary: " 
if so, Lord George Gordon himself would have 
nothing to object to such liberal bastards of our 
Lady of Babylon. 

" [Among the addresses sent in to the Drury 
Lane Committee (parodied in Rejected Addresses') 
was one by Dr. Busby, which began by asking — 
** When energizing objects men pursue. 
What are the prodigies they cannot do.'' "] 



Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 
And only left us tl*y d — d debts and dances ! 
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, 
We bless thee still — for George the Third is 

left ! 
Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
To Germany, and highnesses serene, 
Who owe us millions — don't we owe the 

queen ? 
To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood. 
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 
Who sent us — so be pardoned all her faults — 
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen — and 

Waltz. 

But peace to her — her emperor and diet, 
Though now transferred to Buonaparte's 

"fiat ! " 
Back to my theme — O Muse of motion ! say, 
How first to Albion found thy W^ahz her way ? 

Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales, 
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet 

had mails), 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compelled to creep 
To snowy Gottenburg — was chilled to sleep; 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deigned arise, 
Heligoland ! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unburnt Moscow '•^ yet had news to 

send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. 
She came — Waltz came — and with her cer' 

tain sets 
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes ; 
Then fliamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch. 
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can 

match ; 



2 The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot 
be sufficiently commended — nor subscribed for. 
Amongst other details omitted in the various de- 
spatches of our eloquent ambassador, he did not 
state (being too much occupied with the exploits of 
Colonel C , in swimming rivers frozen, and gal- 
loping over roads impassable,) that one entire prov- 
ince perished by famine in the most melancholy 
manner, as follows: — In General Rostopchin's 
consummate conflagration, the consumption of 
tallow and train oil was so great, that the market 
was inadequate to the demand: and thus one hun- 
dred anS thirty-three thousand persons were starve ' 
to death, by being reduced to wholesome diet! Tht 
lamplighters of London have since subscribed a pia' 
(of oil) apiece, and the tallow-chandlers have unan- 
imously voted a quantity of best moulds (four to 
the pound) , to the relief of the surviving Scythians; 
— the scarcity will soon, by such exertions, and a 
proper attention to the quality rather than the 
quantity of provision, be totally alleviated. It is 
said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine has 
subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal 
to our suffering manufacturers. 



148 



THE WALTZ. 



And — almost crushed beneath the glorious 

news — 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic 

fairs ; 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
Like Lapland witches to insure a wind ; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to 

back it, 
Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 

Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest 

freight. 
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 
The welcome vessel reached the genial strand. 
And round her flocked the daughters of the 

land. 
Not decent David, when, before the ark. 
His grand pas-seul excited some remark; 
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho 

thought 
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought ; 
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread. 
Her nimble feet danced off another's head ; 
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck. 
Displayed so much of leg, or more of neck. 
Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the 

moon 
Behold thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 

To you, ye husbands of ten years I whose 
brows 
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 
To you of nine years less, who only bear 
The budding sprouts of those that you shall 

wear. 
With added ornaments around them rolled 
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 
To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's, match ; 
To you, ye children of — whom chance ac- 
cords — 
Always the ladies, and soynetimes their lords ; 
To you, ve single gentlemen, who seek 
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 
As Love or Hymen your endeavors guide. 
To gain your own, or snatch another's bride ; — 
To one and all the lovely stranger came. 
And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

Endearing Waltz ! — to thy more melting tune 
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon. 
Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, fore- 
go 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe I 
Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms 

demands. 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
Where ne'er before — but — pray " put out the 

light." 
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 



Shines much too far — or I am much too near ; 
And true, though strange — Waltz whispers 

this remark, 
" My slippery steps are safest in the dark 1 " 
But here the Muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 

Observant travellers of every time ! 
Ye quartos published upon every clime ! 
O say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round. 
Fandango's \^ggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
Can Egypt's Almas i — tantalizing group — 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape 

Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne ? 
Ah, no! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz," 

Shades of those belles whose reign began 

of yore. 
With George the Third's — and ended long 

before ! — 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you 

thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred 

host: 
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture 

quake ; 
No stiff-starched stays make meddling fingers 

ache ; 
(Transferred to those ambiguous things that 

ape 
Goats in their visage,2 women in their shape ; ) 
No damsel faints when rather closely pressed. 
But more caressing seems when most ca- 
ressed ; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
Both banished by the sovereign cordial 

" Waltz." 

Seductive Wahz I — though on thy native 
shore 
Even Werter's self proclaimed thee half a 

whore ; 
Werter — to decent vice though much inclined , 
Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 

1 Dancing girls — who do for hire what Waltz 

doth gratis. 

2 It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady 
Baussiere's time, of the " Sieur de la Croix," that 
there be " no whiskers; " but how far these are in- 
dications of valor ill a field, or elsewhere, may still 
be questionable. Much may be, and hath been, 
avouched on both sides. In the olden time philoso- 
phers had whiskers, and soldiers none — Sclpio 
himself was shaven — Hannibal thought his one 
eye handsome enough without a beard; but Adrian, 
the emperor, wore a beard (having warts on his 
chin, which neither the Empress Sabina nor even 
the courtiers could abide) — Turenne had whiskers, 
Marlborough none — Buonaparte is unwhiskered, 



THE WALTZ. 



149 



Though gentle Gcnlis, in her strife with Stael, 
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens, 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle 

spreads, 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our 

heads ; 
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practise what they can't pro- 
nounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts, 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of 
" Waltz 1 " 

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her de- 
but ; 
The court, the Regent, like herself were new ; i 
New face for friends, for foes some new re- 

v/ards ; 
\'ew ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roared for 

bread ; 
Mew coins (most new) 2 to follow those that 

fled; 
New victories — nor can we prize them less. 
Though Jenky wonders at his own success ; 
\^ew wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell; 
Mew mistresses — no, old — and yet 'tis true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something 

new ; 
Each new, quite new — (except some ancient 
tricks),^ 



the Regent whiskered; " argal" greatness of mind 
and whiskers may or may not go together: but cer- 
tainly the different occurrences, since the growth of 
the last mentioned, go further in behalf of whiskers 
than the anathema of Anselm did agaitist long 
hair in the reign of Henry I. — Formerly, red v/as 
a favorite color. See Lodowick Barry's comedy of 
Rain Alley, t66i; Act I. Scene i. 

" Taffeta. Now for a wager — What colored 
Seard comes next by the window ? 

" Adriana. A black man's, I think. 

" Taffeta. I think not so: I think a red, for 
that is most In fashion." 

There is " nothing new under the sun; " but red, 
then 7\ favorite, has now subsided into ^favorite's 
uolor. 

• An anachronism — Waltz and the battle of 
Avisterlitz are before said to have opened the ball 
together: the bard means (if he means any thing). 
Waltz was not so much in vogue till the Regent at- 
tained the acme of his popularity. Waltz, the 
comet, whiskers, and the new government, illumi- 
nated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much 
about the same time: of these the comet only has 
disappeared; the other three continue to astonish 
us still. —Printer s Devil. 

- Amongst others a new ninepence — a creditable 
coin now forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at 
the fairest calculation. 

^ " Oh that right should thus overcome might.'" 
^yho does not remember the " delicate investiga- 
tion " in the " Merry Wives of Windsor "?— 



New white-Sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all 

new sticks ! 
With vests or ribands — decked alike in hue, 
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in 

blue : 

So saith the muse : my ,4 what say you ? 

Such was the time when Waltz might best 

maintain 
Her new preferments in this novel reign; 
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 
Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much ; 
Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 
And tell-tale powder — all have had their 

days. 
The ball begins — the honors of the house 
First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 
Some potentate — or royal or serene — 
With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's 

mien. 
Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 
Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 
From where the garb just leaves the bosom 

free. 
That spot where hearts 5 were once supposed 

to be; 
Round all the confines of the yielded waist. 
The strangest hand may wander undisplaced ; 
The lady's in return may grasp as much 
As princely paunches offer to her touch. 
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they 

trip, 
One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 
The other to the shoulder no less royal 
Ascending with affection truly loyal ! 
Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 
And all in turn may follow in their rank, 
The Earl of — Asterisk — and Lady — Biank ; 

"Ford. Pray you, come near: if I suspect 
without cause, why then make sport at me; then 
let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now? 
whither bear you this ? 

"Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither 
they bear it? — you were best meddle with buck- 
washing." 

* The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the 
blank as he pleases — there are several dissyllabic 
names at his service (being already in the Regent's) : 
it would not be fair to back any peculiar initial 
against the alphabet, as every month will add to the 
list now entered for the sweepstakes: — a distin- 
guished consonant is said to be the favorite, much 
against the wishes of the kfwiuiyig oties. 

" " We have changed all that," says the Mock 
Doctor — 'tis all gone — Asmodeus knows where. 
After all, it is of no great importance how women's 
hearts are disposed of; they have nature's privilege 
to distribute them as absurdly as possible. Kut 
there are also some men with hearts so thoroughly 
bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often 
mentioned in natural history; namely, a mass of 
solid stone — only to be opened by force — and when 
divided, you discover a tonci in the centre lively, 
and with the reputation of being venomous. 



150 



THE WALTZ. 



Sir — Such-a-one — with those of fashion's 

host, 
For whose blest surnames — vide "Morning 

Post" 
(Or if for that impartial print too late, 
Search Doctors' Commons six months from 

my date) — 
Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow, 
The genial contact gently undergo ; 
Till some miglit marvel, with the modest Turk, 
If " nothing follows all this palming work ? "i 
True, honest Mirza! — you may trust my 

rhyme — 
Something does follow at a fitter time ; 
The breast thus publicly resigned to man, 
In private may resist him if it can. 

O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 
And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste 

and will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
Thou ghost of Queensbury ! whose judging 

sprite 
Satan may spare to peep a single niglit, 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
To teach the young ideas how to rise, 
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes ; 
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the 

frame, 
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame. 



1 In Turkej' a pertinent, here an impertinent and 
superfluous question — literally put, as in the text, 
by a Persian to Morier on seeing a waltz in Pera. — 
Vide Morter's Travels, 



For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be, or ought ; 
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap. 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so 

cheap ? 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied. 
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing 

side, 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact 

warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign. 
To press the hand so pressed by none but 

thine ; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret ; 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint ; 
If such thou lovest — love her then no more. 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score; 
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blas- 
phenie ? 
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
Terpsichore, forgive! — at every ball 
My wife fiozo waltzes — and my daughters shall; 
My son — (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 
These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 
Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
Will wear as green a bough for him as me) — 
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



Expende Annibalem: 
Invenies? " 



•quot libras in duce summo 

Juvenal, Sat. X.^ 



" The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul ; 
his moral virtues, and military talents, were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit 
from hisgovernment announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. 

************* 
************* 
By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an 
Emperor and an Exile, till " Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220.2 



[Byron, when publishing "The Corsair," in January, 1814, announced an apparently quite seri- 
ous resolution to withdraw, for some years at least, from poetry. His letters of the February and March 
following abound in repetitions of the same determination. On the morning of the ninth of April, 
he writes — "No more rhyme for — or rather /row — me. I have taken my leave of that stage, and 
henceforth, will mountebank it no longer." In the evening, a Gazette Extraordinary announced the 
abdication of Fontainebloau, and the poet violated his vows next morning by composing this Ode, 
which he immediately published, though without his name. His diary says, " April lo. To-day I 
have boxed one hour — written an Ode to N.^poleon Buonaparte — copied it — eaten six biscuits — drunk 
four bottles of soda water, and redde away the rest of my time."] 



1 [" Produce the urn that Hannibal contains, 

And weigh the mighty dust which yet remains: 

And is this all ! " — 
I know not that this was ever done in the old world; at least, with regard to Hannibal; but, in the 
Statistical Account of Scotland, I find that Sir John Paterson had the curiosity to collect, and weigh, the 
ashes of a person discovered a few years since in the parish of Eccles; which he was happily enabled to 
do with great facility, as " the inside of the coffin was smooth, and the whole body visible." Wonderful 
to relate, he found the whole did not exceed in weight one ounce and a half! And is this all! Alas! 
the qnot libras itself is a satirical exaggeration. — Gifford ?[ 

2 ["I send you an additional motto from Gibbon, which you will find jz«^«/ar/j' appropriate." — 
Byron to Mr. Murray, April 12, 1814.] 



'TiS done — but yesterday a King ! 

And armed with Kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing: 

So abject — yet alive! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive ? 1 
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 



^ ["I don't know — but I think /, even / (an 
insect compared with this creature), have set my 
life on casts not a millionth part of this man's. But, 
after all, a crown may not be worth dying for. Yet, 
to outlive L,odi for this!!'. Oh that Juvenal or 



Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bowed so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind. 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 

Johnson could rise from the dead ! ' Expende — 
quot libras in duce summo invenies?' I knew they 
were light in the balance of mortality ; but 1 thought 
their living dust weighed more carats. Alas! this 
imperial diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly 
fit to stick in a glazier's pencil; — the pen of the 
historian won't rate it worth a ducat. Psha ! ' some- 
thing too much of this.' But I won't give him up 
even now; though all his admirers have, like the 
Thanes, fallen from him." — Byron's Diary, .\pril 
9, 1814.I 



152 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



With might unquestioned, — power to save, — 
Thine only gift hath been the grave 

To those that worshipped thee ; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness ! 

III. 
Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after-warriors more 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preached before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 
"W^ith fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

IV. 
The triumph, and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife i — 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seemed made but to obey. 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quelled 1 — Dark Spirit I what must be 
The madness of thy memory! 



The Desolator desolate ! 

The Victor overthrown ! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 

A Suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope ? 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

VI. 

He who of old would rend the oak,2 
Dreamed not of the rebound ; 

Chained by the trunk he vainly broke — 
Alone — how looked he round ? 

Thou in the sternness of thy strength 

An equal deed hast done at length, 
And darker fate hast found : 

He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 

But thou must eat thy heart away ! 



1 " Certaminis^rti-^^/rt " — the expression of At- 
tiia in his harangue to his army, previous to the 
battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus. 

-' ["Out of town six days. On my return, find 
iny poor liule pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his ped- 
estal. It is his own fault. Like Milo, lie would 
ie;idthe oak; but it closed again, wedged his hands, 
and now the beasts — lion, bear, down to the dirtiest 
jickal — may all tear him. Tliat Muscovite winter 
wedged his arms; — ever since, he has fought with 
his feet and teeth. The last may still leave their 
marks; and 'I eitess now' (as the Yankees say), 
that he will yet play them a pass." — By/roll's 
Diary, April 8.] 



VII. 

The Roman,3 when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart. 

In savage grandeur, home* — 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom 1 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandoned power. 

VIII. 

The Spaniard,^ when the lust of sway 
Had lost its quickening spe!l,5 

Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
An empire for a cell ; 

A strict accountant of his beads, 

A subtle disputant on creeds. 
His dotage trifled well : 

Yet better had he neither known 

A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

IX. 

But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To which thy weakness clung ; 
All Evil Spirit as thou art. 
It is enough to grieve the heart 

To see thine own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 

X. 

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb. 

And thanked him for a throne ! 
Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear. 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh I ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brisfhter name to lure mankind ! 



3 Sylla. — [We find the germ of this stanza in 
the Diary of the evening before it was written: — 
" Methinks Sylla did better; for he revenged, and 
resigned in the height of his sway, red with the 
slaughter of his foes — tlie finest instance of glorious 
contempt of the rascals upon record. Dioclcsian 
did well too — Amurath not amiss, had he become 
aught except a dervise — Charles the Fifth but so 
so; but Napoleon worst of all." — Byron's Diary, 
April g.] 

^ Charles the Fifth. 

■'' ["Alter ' poietit spell' to 'quickening spell:' 
the first (as Polonius says) ' is a vile phrase,' and 
means nothing, besides being commonplace and 
Rosa-Matildaish. After the resolution of not pub- 
lishing, though our Ode is a thing of little length 
and less consequence, it will be better altogether 
that it is anonymous." — Byron to Mr, Murray, 
April II.] 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



153 



Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triunipiis tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hadst died as honor dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise. 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar height. 
To set in such a starless night ? i 



Weighed in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay; 
Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 

To all that pass away : 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate. 

To dazzle and dismay : 
Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth, 

XIII. , 

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower. 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour ? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair. 

Thou throneless Homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
'Tis worth thy vanished diadem I ^ 

XIV. 

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile — 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand 
In loitering mood upon the sand 

That Earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue 3 hath now 
Transferred his by-word to thy brow. 



Thou Timour! in his captive's cage^ 
What thoughts will there be thine. 



' [In the original MS. — 

" But who would rise in brightest day 
To set without one parting ray? "j 

- [Count Neipperg, a gentleman in the suite of 
the Emperor of Austria, who was first presented to 
Maria Louisa within a few days after Napoleon's 
abdication, became, in the sequel, her chamberlain, 
and then her husband. He is said to have been a 
man of remarkably plain appearance. He died in 
1831.] 

3 [Dionysius the Younger, esteemed a greater ty- 
rant than his father, on being for the second time 
banished from Syracuse, retired to Corinth, where 
he was obliged to turn schoolmaster for a subsist- 
ence.] 

* The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 



While brooding in thy prisoned rage ? 

l^ut one — " The world was mine 1 " 
Unless, like he of BabyJon, 
All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit poured so widely forth — 
So long obeyed — so little worth 1 



Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,* 

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
And share with him, the unforgiven. 

His vulture and his rock 1 
Foredoomed by God — by man accurst, 6 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ; " 
He in his fall preserved his pride. 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died! 



There was a day — there was an hour.s 
While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine- 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name 

And gilded thy decline, 
Through the long twilight of all time. 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 



But thou forsooth must be a king. 

And don the purple vest, — 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment ? where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star — the string — the crest? 
Vain froward child of empire 1 say. 
Are all thy playthings snatched away ? 



s Prometheus. 

6 [In first draught — 

" He suffered for kind acts to men. 
Who have not seen his like again. 
At least of kingly stock; 
Since he was good, and thou but great, 
Thou canst not quarrel with thy fate."] 

^ " The very fiend's arch mock — 

To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." 

Shakspeare. 
[He alludes to the unworthy amour in which Napo- 
leon engaged on the evening of his arrival at Fon- 
taincbleau.] 

^ [The three last stanzas, which Byron had been 
solicited by Mr. Murray to write, to avoid the stamp 
duty then imposed upon publications not exceeding 
a sheet, were not published with the rest of the 
poem. " I don't like them at all," said Lord 
Byron, " and they had better be left out. The fact 
is, I can't do any thing I am asked to do, however 
gladly I would; and at the end of a week my inter- 
est in a composition goes off."] 



154 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



XIX. 

Where may the wearied eye repose 

When gazing on the Great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate. 
Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
To make men blush there was but one ! 1 



On being reminded by a friend of his recent 



promise not to write any more for years — " There 
was," replied Byron, " a mental reservation in my 
pact with the public, in behalf of anonymes; and, 
even had there not, the provocation was such as to 
make it physically impossible to pass over this 
epoch of triumphant lameness. 'Tis a sad busi- 
ness; and, after all, I shall think higher of rhyme 
and reason, and very humbly of your heroic people, 
till — Elba becomes a volcano, and sends him out 
again. I can't think it is all over yet."] 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



[Byron never alludes to his share in these Melodies with complacency. Moore having, on one oc- 
casion, rallied him a little on the manner in which some of them had been set to music, — " Sunburn 
Nathan," he exclaims, " why do you always twit me with his Ebrew nasalities? Have I not told you 
it was all Kinnaird's doing, and my own exquisite facility of temper? 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a Selection 
of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan. 
January, 1815. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.i 



She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies : 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
vV'hich heaven to gaudy day denies. 



One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace. 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 



1 [These stanzas were written by Byron, on re- 
turnmg from a ball, where Lady Wilmot Horton 
had appeared in mourning with numerous spangles 
on her dress.] 



And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent. 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent ! 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MIN- 
STREL SWEPT. 

I. 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 
- The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 

Which Music hallowed while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven 1 

It softened men of iron mould, 

It gave them virtues not their own ; 

No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 




Slie walks in beauty. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



155 



That felt not, fired not to the tone, 
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his 
throne ! 

II. 

It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladdened valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to Heaven and there 
abode ! 
Since then, though heard on earth no more. 

Devotion, and her daughter Love 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above. 

In dreams that day's broad light cannot 
remove. 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 



If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
If there the cherished heart be fond. 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres 1 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 



It must be so : 'tis not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh 1 in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
With them the immortal waters drink. 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 



The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound. 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport by : - 

II. 
A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah witnessed there ; 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone ! 



III. 
More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scattered race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace : 
It cannot quit its place of birth, 
It will not live in other earth. 

IV. 

But we must wander witheringly. 

In other lands to die; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 
I. 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's 
stream. 

Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a 
dream ; 

Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 

Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the God- 
less dwell 1 

II. 

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 

And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet? 

And Judah's melody once more rejoice 

The hearts that leaped before its heavenly 
voice ? 

III. 

Tribes of the wondering foot and weary breast, 

How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 

The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 

Mankind their country— Israel but the grave ! 



ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 



On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray,. 
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray. 
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 
Yet there — even there — Oh God ! thy thun- 
ders sleep. 

II. 
There — where thy finger scorched the tablet 

stone, 
There — where thy shadow to thy people 

shone ! 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself — none living see and not expire! 

III. 
Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ; 
Sweep from his shivered hand the oppressor's 
spear. 



156 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God 1 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 



Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire ! 
Demand that thy Daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
strike the bosom that's bared for thee now ! 



tnd the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
-^nd the mountains behold me no more : 
?f the hand that I love lay me low. 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

III. 
And of this, oh, my Father! be sure — 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 
And the last thought that soothes me below. 



Though the virgins of Salem lament. 
Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee. 
And my Father and Country are free ! 

V. 
When this blood of thy giving hath gushed. 
When the voice that thou lovest is hushed, 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 



OH ! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
SLODM. 



Oh ! snatched away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 



And oft by yon blue gushing stream 

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 
And feed deep thought with many a dream, 

And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 

Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the 
dead! 

III. 
Away ! we know that tears are vain. 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
Will this unteach us to complain ? 

Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
And thou — who tell'st me to forget. 
Thy 'ooks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK. 
I. 
My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear. 

That sound shall charm it forth again : 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. 



Bu^ bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first: 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep. 

Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 

And ached in sleepless silence long; 
And now 'tis'doomed to know the worst. 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 

I. 

I SAW thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew : 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine; 
It could not match the living rays 

That filled that glance of thine. 



As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye. 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ; 
Their sunshine leave's a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 
I. 
Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 
The freedom he restored ! 



Though thou art fallen, while we are frae 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that flowed from thee 
Disdained to sink beneath: 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath ! 




Jeplitliah's Daughter. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



157 



in. 
Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices poured ! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong; 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
BATTLE. 

I. 
Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or 

the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your 

path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

II. 
Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow. 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from 

the foe. 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to 

meet. 

III. 
Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart I 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway. 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ! 



SAUL. 



I. 

Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 

" Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer! " 
Earth yawned ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his 

shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was withered, and his veins were 

dry; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there, 
Siirunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing 

frame, 
Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

II. 
"Why is my sleep disquieted? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, O King ? Behold. 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: 



Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
Ere the coming day is done, 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day, 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low. 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide; 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul ! " l 



"ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE 
PREACHER." 

I. 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine. 

And health and youth possessed me ; 
My goblets blushed from every vine, 

And lovely forms caressed me ; 
I sunned my heart in beauty's eyes, " 

And felt my soul grow tender ; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendor. 

II. 
I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover. 
Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 
There rose no day, there rolled no hour 

Of pleasure unembittered ; 
And not a trapping decked my power 

That galled not while it glittered. 

III. 
The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming; 
But that which coils around the heart, 

Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
It will not list to wisdom's lore. 

Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings for evermore 

l"he soul that must endure it. 



1 [" Since we have spoken of witches," said By- 
ron at Cephnlonia, in 1823, " what think you of the 
witch of Endor? I have always thought this the 
finest and most finished witch-scene that ever was 
written or conceived; and you will be of my opin- 
ion, if you consider all the circumstances and the 
actors In the case, together with the gravity, sim- 
plicitv, and dignitv oT the language. It beats all 
the ghost scenes I ever read. The finest concep- 
tion on a similar subject is that of Goethe's Devil, 
Mephistopheles; and though, of course, you will 
give the priority to the former, as being inspired, 
yet the latter, if you know it, will appear to you — 
at least it does to me — one of the finest and mo«t 
sublime specimens of human conception."] 



158 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS 
SUFFERING CLAY, 

I. 
When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
Then unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

11. 

Eternal, boundless, undecayed, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all. 
All, all in earth, or skies displayed, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall: 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years. 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appears. 

III. 
Before Creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 
While sun is quenched or system breaks, 

Fixed in its own eternity. 

IV. 
Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fiy; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 

I. 
The King was on his throne. 

The Satraps thronged the hall; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deemed divine — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine. 



In that same hour and hall. 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 



And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran. 

And traced them like a wand. 

III. 
The monarch saw, and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice ; 
All bloodless waxed his look. 

And tremulous his voice. 
" Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth. 
And expound the words of fear, 

Which mar our royal mirth." 

IV. 
Chaldea's seers are good. 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore ; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 

V. 
A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command. 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 



" Belshazzar's grave is made, 

His kingdom passed away, 
He, in the balance weighed. 

Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud, his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone; 
The Made is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne ! ' 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star! 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 
That show'st the darkness thou canst not 

dispel. 
How like art thou to joy remembered well ! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days. 
Which shines, but warms not with its power- 
less rays ; 
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how 
cold ! 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



159 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS 
THOU DEEMST IT TO BE. 



Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it 

to be, 
I need not have wandered from far Galilee; 
It was but abjuring my creed to efface 
The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of 

my race, 

II. 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with 

thee! 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and 

free ! 
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 

in. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst 

bestow. 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth 

know ; 
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in 

thine 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARI- 

AMNE.1 

I. 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 
The heart for which thou bled'st is bleed- 
ing; 
Revenge is lost in agony, 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading : 
Ah! couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon 
now, 
Though Heaven were to my prayer un- 
heeding. 

II. 

And is she dead ? — and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving ? 
My wrath but doomed my own despair : 



' [Mariamne, the wife of Herod the Great, falling 
under the suspicion of infidelity, was put to death 
by his order. She was a woman of unrivalled 
beauty, and haughty spirit: unhappy in being the 
object of passionate attachment, which bordered on 
frenzy, to a man who had more or less concern in 
the murder of her grandfather, father, brother, and 
uncle, and who had twice commanded her death, in 
case of his own. Ever after, Herod was haunted 
by the image of the murdered Mariamne, until dis- 
order of the mind brought on disorder of body, 
which led to temporary derangement. — Milman.'\ 



The sword that smote her's o'er me war- 
ing. — 
But thou art cold, my murdered love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above. 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

III. 

She's gone, who shared my diadem ; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; 
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming; 
And I have earned those tortures well, 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE 

DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM 

BY TITUS. 

I. 
From the last hill that looks on thy once holy 

dome 
I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when rendered to 

Rome : 
'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames 

of thy fall 
Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy 

wall. 

II. 
I looked for thy temple, I looked for my home, 
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
And the fast-fettered hands that made ven- 
geance in vain. 

III. 
On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the 

decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on 

thy shrine. 

IV. 
And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
But I marked not the twilight beam melting 

away; 
Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its 

stead. 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's 

head! 

V. ' 

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdained not to 

reign ; 
And scattered and scorned as thy people may 

be. 
Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 



160 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE 
SAT DOWN AND WEPT. 



We sate down and wept by the waters 
Of Babel, and thought of the day 

When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
Made Salem's high places his prey; 

And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
Were scattered all weeping away. 



While sadly we gazed on the river 
Which rolled on in freedom below. 

They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
That triumph the stranger shall know ! 

May this right hand be withered for ever, 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 



On the willow that harp is suspended, 
Oh Salem ! its sounds should be free; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACH- 
ERIB. 



The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the 

fold. 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 

gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on 

the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Gal- 
ilee. 

II. 
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is 

green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were 

seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autum.nhath 

blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and 

strown. 

III. 
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on 

the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 



And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and 

chill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever 

grew still ! 

IV. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath ol 

his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 

turf. 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 



And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
W^ith the dew on his brow, and the rust on his 

mail, 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances uplifted, the trumpet unblown. 

VI. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 

sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 

Lord! 



A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME. 

FROM JOB. 
I. 

A SPIRIT passed before me : I beheld 

The face of immortality unveiled — 

Deep sleep came down on every eye save 

mine — 
And there it stood, — all formlers — but divine : 
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 
And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake : 

II. 
" Is man more just than God ? Is man more 

pure 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night. 
Heedless rmd blind to Wisdom's wasted 

light 1 " 1 



1 [The Hebrew Melodies, though obviously infe- 
rior to Lord Byron's other works, display a skill in 
versification, and a mastery in diction, which would 
have raised an inferior artist to the very summit of 
distinction. — Jeffrey^ 



DOMESTIC PIECES— 1816. 



[Of the six following poems, the first three were written immediately before Lord Byron's final depart- 
ure from England; the others, during the earlier part of his residence in the neighborhood of Geneva. 
They all refer to the unhappy event, which will for ever mark the chief crisis of his personal story, — 
ihat separation from Lady Byron, of which, after all that has been said and written, The real motives and 
circumstances remain as obscure as ever. 

Mr. Kennedy, in his account of Lord Byron's last residence in Cephalonia, represents him as saying, 
— " Lady Byron deserves every respect from me: I do not indeed know the cause of the separation, and 
I have remained, and ever will remain, ready for a reconciliation, whenever circumstances open and 
point out the way to it." Mr. Moore has preserved evidence of one attempt which Lord Byron made to 
bring about an explanation with his Lady, ere he left Switzerland for Italy. Whether he ever repeated 
the experiment we are uncertain : but that failed, — and the failure must be borne in mind, when the 
reader considers some of the smaller pieces included in this Section.] 



FARE THEE WELL.i 

" Alas ! they had been friends in Youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth; 
And constancy lives in realms above; 
And Life is thorny; and youth is vain: 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain ; 
****** 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder; 
A dreary sea now flows between. 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder 
Shall wholly do away, I ween. 
The marks of that which once hath been." 

Coleridge's Christabel. 

Fare thee well ! and if for ever. 

Still for ever, fare thee well : 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain. 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show I 

Then thou would'st at last discover 
'Twas not well to spurn it so. 



^ [It was about the middle of April that his two 
celebrated copies of verses, " Fare thee well," and 
" A Sketch," made their appearance in the news- 
papers; and while the latter poem was generally, 
and, it must be owned, justly condemned, as a sort 
of literary assault on an obscure female, whose situ- 



Though the world for this commend thee — 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises must offend thee, • 

Founded on another's woe : 

Though my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found. 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound ? 



ation ought to have placed her as much beneath 
his satire, as the undignified mode of his attack cer- 
tainly raised her above it, with regard to the other 
poem, opinions were a good deal more divided. To 
many it appeared a strain of true conjugal tender- 
ness, — a kind of appeal which no woman with a 
heart could resist; while, by others, on the contrary, 
it was -considered to be a mere showy effusion of 
sentiment, as difficult for real feeling to have pro- 
duced as it was easy fnr fancy and art, and alto- 
gether unworthy of the deep interests involved in 
the subject. To this latter opinion I confess my 
own to have, at first, strongly inclined, and suspi- 
cious as I could not help thinking the sentiment 
that could, at such a moment, indulge in such 
verses, the taste that prompted or sanctioned their 
publication appeared to me even still more question- 
able. On reading, however, his own account of all 
the circumstances in the Memoranda, I found that 
on both points I had, in common with a large por- 
tion of the public, done him Injustice. He there 
described, and in a manner whose sincerity there 
was no doubting, the swell of tender recollections 
under the influence of which, as he sat one night 
musing in his study, these stanzas were produced, 
— the tears, as he said, falling fast over the paper 
as he wrote them. Neither did it appear from that 
account, to have been from any wish or intention of 
his own, but through the injudicious zeal of a frie'id 
whom he had suffered to inkc a copy, that the 
verses met the public eye. — M.-o>'c.\ 



162 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 

Love may sink by slow decay. 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away : 

Still thine own its life retaineth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead ; 

Both shall live, but every morrow 
Wake us from a widowed bed. 

And when thou would solace gather, 
When our child's first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say " Father 1 " 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is pressed. 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
Think of him thy love had blessed 1 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more may'st see. 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou knowest, 
All my madness none can know ; 

All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 
Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow. 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken. 

Even my soul forsakes me now : 

But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
Words from me are vainer still ; 

But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way without the will. — 

Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie. 
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted. 

More than this I scarce can die. 

March 17, 1816. 



A SKETCH.i 

" Honest — honest lago ! 
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 

Shakspeare. 

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 
Next — for some gracious service unexpressed. 



1 [" I send you my last night's dream, and re- 
quest to have fifty copies struck off, for private dis- 
iribution. I wish Mr. Gifford to look at them. 
They are from life." — Byron to Mr. Murray, 

March :!o, t8i6.] 



And from its wages only to be guessed — 
Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabashed, 
She dines from off the plate she lately 

washed. 
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 
The genial confidante, and general spy — 
Who could, ye gods 1 her next employment 

guess — 
An only infant's earliest governess ! 
She taught the child to read, and taught so 

well, 
That she herself, by teaching, learned to spell. 
An adept next in penmanship she grows, 
As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 
What she had made the pupil of her art. 
None know — but that high Soul secured the 

heart. 
And panted for the truth it could not hear, 
With longing breast and undeluded ear. 
Foiled was perversion by that youthful mind, 
Which Flattery fooled not — Baseness could 

not blind. 
Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 
Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 
Nor mastered Science tempt her to look down 
On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 
Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain — 
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 
xMor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor 

Passion bow. 
Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 
Serenely purest of her sex that live. 
But wanting one sweet weakness— to forgive, 
Too shocked at faults her soul can never 

know. 
She deems that all could be like her below : 
P'oe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 
For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme : — now laid aside too long 
The baleful burden of this honest song — 
Though all her former functions are no more, 
She rules the circle which she served before. 
If mothers — none know why — before her 

quake ; 
If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake ; 
If early habits — those false links, which bind 
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 
Have given her power too deeply to instil 
The angry essence of her deadly will; 
If like a snake she steal within your walls. 
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ; 
If like a viper to the heart she wind. 
And leave the venom there she did not find ; 
What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,. 
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ? 
Skilled by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 
With all the kind mendacity of hints. 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



163 



While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers 

with smiles — 
A thread of candor with a web of wiles ; 
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, 
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-hardened 

scheming; 
A lip of lies — a face formed to conceal ; 
And, without feeling, mock at ail who feel : 
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ; 
A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail. 
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — 
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
Congenial colors in that soul'or face) — 
Look on her features ! and behold her mind 
As in a mirror of itself defined : 
Look on the picture! deem it not o'er- 

charged — 
There is no trait which might not be enlarged, 
Yet true to " Nature's journeymen," who made 
This monster when their mistress left off 

trade — 
This female dog-star of her little sky, 
Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh ! wretch without a tear — without a 

thought. 
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
The time shall come, nor long remote, when 

thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now ; 
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain. 
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
May the strong curse of crushed affections 

light 
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight ! 
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind! 
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate. 
Black — as thy will for others would create : 
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust. 
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, — 
The widowed couch of fire, that thou hast 

spread ! 
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven 

with prayer, 
Look on thine earthly victims — and despair ! 
Down to the dust ! — and as thou rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous 

clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear. 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high. 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorred compeers — 
And festering i in the infamy of years. 

March 29, 1816. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.2 
I. 
When all around grew drear and dark, 

And reason half withheld her ray — 
And hope but shed a dying spark 
Which more misled my lonely way; 

II. 
In that deep midnight of the mind, 

And that internal strife of heart. 
When dreading to be deemed too kind, 

The weak despair — the cold depart; 



When fortune changed — and love fled far, 
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, 

Thou wert the solitary star 
Which rose and set not to the last. 

IV. 

Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 

That watched m.e as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and the night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

V. 
And when the cloud upon us came, 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 
Then purer spread its gentle flame, 

And dashed the darkness all away. 



Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 
And teach it what to brave or brook - 

There's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 



Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree. 
That still unbroke, though gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

VIII. 

The winds might rend — the skies might pour, 
But there thou wert — and still would'st be 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 



[In first draught — "weltering. 



doubt 



about 'weltering.' We say 'weltering in blood;' 
but do not they also use ' weltering in the wind,' 
' weltering on a gibbet? ' I have no dictionary, so 
look. In the mean time, I have put 'festering; ' 
which perhaps, in any case, is the best word of the 
two. Shakspeare has it often, and I do not think 
it too strong for the figure in this thing. Quick! 
quick! quick! quick! " — Byron to Mr. Murray, 
April 2, 1816.] 

2 [His sister, the Honorable Mrs. Leigh. — 
These stanzas — the parting tribute to her, whose 
tenderness had been his sole consolation during the 
crisis of domestic misery — were the last verses 
written by Byron in England.] 



164 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



But thou and thine shall know no blight, 
Whatever fate on me may fall ; 

For heaven in sunshine will requite 
The kind — and thee the most of all. 



Then let the ties of bafified love 

Be broken — thine will never break ; 

Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; 
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 



And these, when all was lost beside. 
Were found and still are fixed in thee ; 

And bearing still a breast so tried, 
Earth is no desert — even to me. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.i 



Though the day of my destiny's over. 

And the star of my fate hath declined,^ 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted. 

It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 

II. 
Then when nature around me is smiling. 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me. 
If their billows excite an emotion. 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

III. 
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered. 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave. 
Though I feel that my soul is delivered ^ 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not con- 
temn — 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

Tis of thee that I think — not of them.3 



1 [These beautiful verses, so expressive of the 
writer's wounded feelings at the moment, were 
written in July, at the Campagne Diodaii, near 
Geneva. " Be careful," he says, " in printing the 
stanzas beginning, ' Though the day of my destiny's,' 
etc., which I think well of as a composition."] 

2 [In the original MS. — 

" Though the days of my glory are over, 

And the sun of my fame hath declined."] 
' [Originally thus: — 
" There is many a pang to pursue me, 
And many a peril to stem: 



Though human, thou did'st not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou did'st not forsake. 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me. 

Though slandered, thou never couldst 
shake, — 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me. 

Though parted, it was not to fly. 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me. 

Nor, mute, that the world might belie.^ 

V. 
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error hath cost me. 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me. 

It could not deprive me oi thee. 



From the wreck of the past, which hath per- 
ished. 

Thus much I at least may recall. 
It hath taught me that what I most cherished 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing. 

In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
And a bird in the solitude singing. 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 

July 24, 1816. 



EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA.5 
I. 
My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 
Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destin}', — 
A world to roam through, and a home with 
thee. 

II. 
The first were nothing — had I still the last, 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 



They may torture, but shall not subdue me; 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn."] 
* [MS.— 
" Though watchful, 'twas but to reclaim me, 

Nor, silent, to sanction a lie."] 
f' [These stanzas — "Than which," says the 
Quarterly Review, for January, 1831, "there is, 
perhaps, nothing more mournfully and desolately 
beautiful in the whole range of Lord Byron's poe- 
try " — were also written at Diodati ; and sent home 
at the time for publication, if Mrs. Leigh should 
sanction it. She decided against it, and the Epistle 
was not published till 1830. J 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



165 



But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and 

past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's i fate of 

yore, — 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

III. 
If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen, 
I have sustained my share of worldly shocks. 
The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

IV. 
Mine were my faults, and mine be their re- 
ward. 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which 

marred 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walked astray ; 
And I at times have found the struggle hard. 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay : 
But now I fain would for a time survive, 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 

V. 
Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this, the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have 

rolled 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
Something — I know not what — does still 

uphold 
A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain. 
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

VI. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer, 
And with light armor we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, whi^h was 
not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 



^ [Admiral Byron was remarkable for never mak- 
ing a voyage without a tempest. He was known 
to the sailors by the facetious name of " Foul- 
weather ^ack." 

" But, though it were tempest-tossed, 
Still his "bark could not be lost." 
He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager (in 
Anson's voyage), and subsequently circumnavi- 
gated the world, many years after, as commander 
of a similar expedition.] 



VII. 
I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, 

and brooks, 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books. 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 

VIII. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But something worthier do such scenes 

inspire : 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
For much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

IX. 

Oh that thou wert but with me! — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There may be others which I less may 

show ; — 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy. 
And the tide rising in my altered eye. 

X. 

I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,2 
By the old Hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory 

make 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, 
they are 
Resigned for ever, or~divided far.. 

XI. 
The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply — 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 



I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 



- [The Lake of Newstead Abbey which he has 
described minutely in the Thirteenth Canto of Don 
Juan.] 



166 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would 
have slept ; 
I had not suffered, and thou hadst not wept. 

XIII. 

With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with Love, and least of all with Fame ; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me 

grew, 
And made me all which they can make — 

a name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

XIV. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ;' 
I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
Having survived so many things that were ; 
My years have been no slumber, but the 

prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have filled a century. 
Before its fourth in time had passed me by. 



And for the remnant which may be to come 
I am content ; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal. 
And for the present, I would not benumb 
My feelings further. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around 
And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

XVI, 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine; 
We were and are — I am , even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er .each other can resign; 
It is the same, together or apart, 
From life's commencement to its slow de- 
cline 
We are entwined — let death come slow or 
fast, 
The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 



LINES 

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. 

And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ; 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; 

Methought that joy and health alone could be 



Where I was not — and pain and sorrow 
here! 
And is it thus ? — it is as I foretold. 

And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wrecked heart lies cold. 

While heaviness collects the shattered spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumbed, and wish to be no more, 

But in the after-silence on the shore. 
When all is lost, except a little life. 

I am too well avenged 1 — but 'twas my right ; 

Whate'er my sins might be, tliou wert not 
sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite — 

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instru- 
ment. 
Mercy is for the merciful 1 — if thou 
Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 
Thy nights are banished from the realms of 
sleep 1 — 

Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt 
feel 

A hollow agony which will not heal. 
For thou art pillowed on a curse too deep ; 
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
I have had many foes, but none like thee; 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend. 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
But thou in safe implacability 
Hadst nought to dread — in thy own weakness 

shielded, 
And in my love, which hath but too much 
yielded. 

And spared, for thy sake, some I should 
not spare — 
And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
And the wild fame of my ungoverned youth — 

On things that were not, and on things that 
are — 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt! 

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord. 
And hewed down, with an unsuspected sword, 
Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better 
life 

Which, but for this cold treason of thy h •.. t, 
Might still have risen from out the grav^- A 

strife. 
And found a nobler duty than to part. 
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice. 

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold. 

For present anger, and for future gold — 
And buying other's grief at any price. 
And thus once entered into crooked ways. 
The early truth, which was thy proper praise, 
Did not still walk beside thee — but at times. 
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes. 
Deceit, averments incompatible, 
Equivocations, and the thouglits which dwell 

In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 



MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN 



167 



Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
Of Prudence, with advantages annexed — 
The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
No matter how, to the desired end — 



All found a place in thy philosophy. 
The means were worthy, and the end is won- 
I would not do by thee as thou hast done 1 
September, 1816. 



MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. 
R. B. SHERIDAN, 

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE TPIEATRE. 



[Mr. Sheridan died the 7th of July, 1816, and this monody was written at Diodati on the 17th, at the 
request of Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. " I did as well as I could," says Byron, " but where I have not my 
choice, I pretend to answer for nothing." He told Lady Blessington, however, that his feelings were 
never more excited than while writing it, and that every word came direct from his heart.] 



When the last sunshine of expiring day 
In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 
While Nature makes that melancholy pause. 
Her breathing moment on the bridge where 

Time 
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, 
Who hath not shared that calm so still and 

deep. 
The voiceless thought which would not speak 

but weep, 

A holy concord — and a bright regret, 
A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 
'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe, 
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below. 
Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 
A sweet dejection — a transparent tear. 
Unmixed with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
When Summer's day declines along the hills, 
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 
When all of Genius which can perish dies. 
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 
Hath passed from day to darkness — to whose 

hour 
Of light no likeness is bequeathed — no name, 
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 



The flash of Wit — the bright Intelligence, 
The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
These sparkling segments of that circling soul. 
Which all embraced — and lightened overall. 
To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to ap- 
pall. 
From the charmed council to the festive board. 
Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 
The praised — the proud — who made his 

praise their pride. 
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan l 

1 [See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr 
Sheridan's speech on the charges exhibited against 
Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr. Pitt 
entreated tiie House to adjourn, to give time for a 
calmer consideration of the question than could 
then occur after the immediate effect of the oration. 
— " Before my departure from England," says Gib- 
bon, " I was present at the august spectacle of Mr. 
Hastings's trial in Westminster Hall. It is not my 
province to absolve or condemn the governor of 
India; but Mr. Sheridan's eloquence demanded my 
applause; nor could I hear without emotion the 
personal compliment which he paid me in the pres- 
ence of the British nation. This display of genius 
blazed four successive days," etc. On being asked 



168 



MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN. 



Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
His was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 
The wrath — tlie delegated voice of God ! 
Which shool< the nations through his lips — 

and blazed 
Till vanquished senates trembled as they 

praised. 1 

And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and 

warm 
The gay creations of his spirit charm, 
The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit, 
Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 
Home to our hearts the truth from which they 

spring ; 
These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought 
To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 
Here in their first abode you still may meet. 
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat ; 
A halo of the light of other days. 
Which still the splendor of its orb betrays. 
But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, 
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own. 
Still let them pause — ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seemed Vice might be but 

Woe. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fixed for ever to detract or praise ; 
Repose denies her requiem to his name. 
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
Stands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy, 
The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the 

vain, 
The envious who but breathe in others' pain, 
Behold the host ! delighting to deprave, 
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, 
Watch every fault that daring genius owes 
Half to the ardor which its birth bestows, 
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 
And pile the Pyramid of Calumny! 

These are his portion — biit if joined to these 
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Dis- 
ease, 
If the high Spirit must forget to soar. 
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,2 



by a brother Whig, at the conclusion of the speech^ 
how he came to compliment Gibbon with the epi- 
thet " luminous," Sheridan answered, in a half 
whisper, " I said ' r/^luminous.' "] 

1 ["I heard Sheridan only once, and that brieflv; 
but I liked his voice, his manner, and his wit. He 
is the only one of them I ever wished to hear at 
greater length." — i9v^<'«'j Diary, 1821.] 

2 [This was not fiction. Only a few days before 
his death, Sheridan wrote thus io Mr. Rogers: — 
" I am absolutely undone and broken-hearted. 
They are going to put the carpets out of window, 
and break into Mrs. S.'s room and take me: 150/. 
will remove all difficulty. For God's sake let me 



To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
Meet sorded Rage — and wrestle with Dis- 

grace, 
To find in Hope but the renewed caress. 
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness: — 
If such may be the Ills which men assail. 
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling 

given 
Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from 

Heaven, 
Black with the rude collision, inly torn. 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds 

borne. 
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
Thoughts which have turned to thunder — 

scorch — and burst.^ 

But far from us and from our mimic scene 
Such things should be — if such have ever 

been ; 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
To give the tribute Glory need not ask. 
To mourn the vanished beam — and add our 

mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field! 
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three. '^ 
Whose words were sparks of Immortality! 
Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear. 
He was your Master— emulate him here !' 
Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 5 
He was vour brother — bear his ashes hence ! 
While Powers of mind almost of boundless 

range ,6 

see you! " Mr. Moore was the immediate bearer 
of the required sum. This was written on the 15th 
of May. On the 14th of July, Sheridan's remains 
were deposited in Westminster Abbey, — his pall- 
bearers being the Duke of Bedford, the Earl of 
Lauderdale, Earl Mulgrave, the Lord Bishop of 
London, Lord Holland, and Earl Spencer. 

3 [In the original MS.— 

"Abandoned by the skies, whose beams have nurst. 
Their very thunders lighten — scorch — and burst."] 

4 Fox — Pitt — Burke. 

^ [" In society I have met Sheridan frequently. 
He was superb! I have seen him cut up Whit- 
broad, quiz Madame de Stael, aimibilate Colman, 
and do little less by some others of good fame and 
ability. I have met him at all places and parties 
and always found him convivial ?nd delightful." — 
Byron's Diary, 1821.] 

fi [" The other night we were all delivering our 
respective and various opinions upon Sheridan, and 
mine was this: — ' Whatever Sheridan has done or 
chosen to do has been par excellence always the 
best of its kind. He has written the best comedy 
(School for Scandal), the best drama (in my mind, 
far beyond that St. Giles's lampoon, the Beggars' 
Opera), the best farce (the Critic — it is only too 
good for a farce), and the best address (Monologue 




The Dream. 



THE DREAM. 



169 



Complete in kind — as various in their change, 
While Eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and M irth , 



on Garrick) and, to crown all, delivered the very 
best oration (the famous Begum speech) ever con- 
ceived or heard in this country.'" — Byron's Diary, 
Dec. 17, 1813.J 



That humbler Harmonist of care on E^irth, 
Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, 
Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain, 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 



THE DREAM. 



[" The Dream " — called in the first draught " The Destiny " — was written at Diodati, in July, 1816, 
and reflects the train of thought engendered by the recent quarrel with Lady Byron. The misery of his 
marriage led him to revert to his early passion for Miss Chaworth, whose union had proved no happier 
than his own.] 



Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 

A boundary between the things misnamed 

Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 

And a wide realm of wild reality, 

And dreams in their development have breath. 

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 

They take a weight from off our waking toils. 

They do divide our being ; they become 

A portion of ourselves as of our time. 

And look like heralds of eternity; 

They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 

Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They make us what we were not — what they 

will, 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanished shadows — Are they 

so? 
Is not the past all shadow ? What are they ? 
Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh, 
I would recall a vision which I dreamed 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 



I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standmg upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Greea and of mild declivity, the last 



As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of 

men 
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 
And that was shining on him ; he had looked 
Upon it till it could not pass away; 
He had no breath, no ^eing, but in hers ; 
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her. 
But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 1 
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers. 
Which colored all his objects : — he had ceased 
To live within himself; she was his life. 
The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 
Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 



[MS.: — " she was his sight. 

For never did he turn his glance until 
Her own had led by gazing on an object."] 



170 



THE DREAM. 



And his cheek change tempestuously — his 

heart 
Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much, 
For brotherless she was, save in the name 
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him ; 
Herself the solitary scion left 
Of a time-honored race.i — It was a name 
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — 

and why ? 
Time taught him a deep answer — when she 

loved 
Another ; even now she loved another. 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

III. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned : 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he 

leaned 
His bowed head on his hands, and shook as 

'twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again. 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet : as he paused. 
The Lady of his love reentered there ; 
She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew. 
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his 

heart 
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.2 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow 

steps 
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu. 
For they did part with mutual smiles; he 

passed 



^ ["Our union," said Byron in 1821, "would 
have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by 
our fathers — it would have joined lands, broad and 
rich — it would have joined at least one heart and 
two persons not ill-matched in years (she is two 
years my elder) — and — and — and — what has 
been the result! "] 

2 [" I had long been in love with M. A. C, and 
never told it, though she had discovered it without. 
I recollect my sensations, but cannot describe them, 
and it is as well." — Byron s Diary, 1822.] 



From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was 

girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruined walls that had survived the names 
Of those who reared them ; by his sleeping side . 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.3 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love was wed with One 
Who did not love her better : — in her home, 
A thousand leagues from his, — her native 

home. 
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 
Upon her face there was the tint of grief. 
The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye 
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
What could her grief be? — she had all she 

loved. 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be ? — she had loved him 

not. 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved. 
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VI, 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 



3 [This is true keeping— an Eastern picture per- 
fect in its foreground, and distance, and sky, and 
no part of which is so dwelt upon or labored as to 
obscure the principal figure. It is often in the 
slight and almost imperceptible touches that the 
hand of the master is shown, and that a single 
spark, struck from his fancy, lightens with a long 
train of illumination that of the reader. — 5"/r 
Walter Scott.'\ 



THE DREAM. 



171 



Before an Altar — with a gentle bride; 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The Starlight of his Boyhood; — as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shqck 
That in the antique Oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, — and then it faded as it came. 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
And all things reeled around him ; he could 

see 
Not that which was, nor that which should 

have been — 
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall. 
And the remembered chambers, and the place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the 

shade. 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
And her who was his destiny, came back 
And thrust themselves between him and the 

light : 
What business had they there at such a time? 1 

VII. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love ; — Oh I she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 



•What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! "^ 

VIII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore. 
The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, compassed round 
With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mixed 
In all which was served up to him, until. 
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days.s 
He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 
But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
Through that which had been death to many 

men, 
And made him friends of mountains : with the 

stars 
And the quick Spirit of the Universe 
He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 
To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 
A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced 

out 
Almost like a reality — the one 
To end in madness — both in misery .^ 

July, 1816. 



* [This touching picture agrees closely, in many 
of its circumstances, with I,ord Byron's own prose 
account of the wedding in his Memoranda; in which 
he describes himself as waking, on the morning of 
his marriage, with the most melr^ncholy reflections, on 
seeing his wedding-suit spread out before him. In 
the same mood, he wandered about the grounds 
alone, till he was summoned for the ceremony, and 
joined, for the first time, on that day, his bride and 
her family. He knelt down — he repeated the 
words after the clergyman; but a mist was before 
his eyes — his thoughts were elsewhere; and he was 
but awakened by the congratulations of the by- 
standers to find that he was — married. — Moore.\ 



2 [MS. — " the glance 

Of melancholy is a fearful gift; 

For it becomes the telescope of truth. 

And shows us all things naked as they are."] 

3 Mithridates of Pontus. 

* [This poem is written with great beauty and 
genius — but is extremely painful. We cannot main- 
tain our accustomed tone of levity, or even speak 
like calm literary judges, in the midst of these ago- 
nizing traces of a wounded and distempered spirit. 
Even our admiration is swallowed up in a most 
painful feeling of pity and of wonder. It is impos- 
sible to mistake these for fictitious sorrows, conjured 
up for the purpose of poetical effect. There is a 
dreadful tone of sincerity, and an energy that can- 
not be counterfeited, in the expression of wretched- 
ness, and alienation from human-kind, which occurs 
in every line of this poem. — Jeffrey. '{ 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



At Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the original MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's 
Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto; and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and 
the house of the latter. But, as misfortune has a greater interest for posterity, and little or none for the 
contemporary, the cell where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed atten- 
tion, than the residence or the monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect on me. There are two 
inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder 
and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much decayed, and depopulated: the castle still exists 
entire; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon. 
— [The original MS. of this poem is dated, " The Apennines, April 20, 1817." It was written in conse- 
quence of Byron having visited Ferrara, for a single day, on his way to Florence. In a letter from 
Rome, he says, — " The ' Lament of Tasso,' which I sent from Florence, has, I trust, arrived. I look 
upon it as a ' These be good rhymes! ' as Pope's papa said to him when he was a boy."j 



INTRODUCTION. 

After all that has been written upon the Duke of Ferrara's imprisonment of Tasso, a great deal con- 
tinues to be left to conjecture. It seems certain that he was in love with the Princess Eleanora, and 
that he addressed her amatory poems. There are other pieces which probably refer to her, in which he 
boasts of a dishonorable success, and which are supposed to have fallen into the hands of her brother, 
the Duke. But the immediate cause of Tasso's arrest was a quarrel in the palace at Ferrara, when he 
threw a knife at a domestic. The affair ended in his being sent as a lunatic to the convent of St. 
Francis. This was on the nth of July, 1577, and on the 2Dth he made his escape. In February, 1579, 
he returned to Ferrara, and the Duke and the Princess refusing to notice him, he uttered imprecations 
against them, was declared a madman, and was confined for seven years in the hospital of St. Anna. A 
miserable dungeon below the ground-floor, and lighted from a grated window, which looks into a small 
covert, is shown as the scene of his sufferings, but there is unlikelihood that it was so, and Tasso was at 
least removed to a spacious apartment before a twelvemonth had elapsed. The poet protested that the 
madness of 1577 was feigned to please the Duke, who hoped, according to modern inferences, that any 
imputations upon the name of the Princess would be ascribed to the hallucinations of a distempered mind. 
Whether the subsequent madness of 1579 was real or not, has been the subject of endless speculations, 
but if clouds obscured the mind of Tasso they broke away at intervals, and allowed him to continue his 
immortal compositions. Byron adopts the theory that he was imprisoned under a false pretence to 
avenge a pure but presumptuous love. 



I. 

Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to 

bear 
And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song — 
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
Imputed madness, prisoned solitude, 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood. 
When the iiripatient thirst of light and air 
Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 



Works through the throbbing eyeball to the 

brain 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
And bare, at once, Captivity displayed 
Stands scoffing through the never-opened 

gate, 
Which nothing through its bars admits, save 

day. 
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



173 



And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may 

wear. 
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
For I have battled with mine agony, 
And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall. 
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 
And revelled among men and things divine, 
And poured my spirit over Palestine, 
In honor of the sacred war for Him, 
The God who was on earth and is in heaven. 
For he hath strengthened me in heart and limb. 
That through this sufferance I might be for- 
given, 
! have employed my penance to record 
How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 

II. 

But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done : — i 
Mv long-sustaining friend of many years ! 
If I do blot thy final page with tears. 
Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me 

none. 
But, thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 
Which ever playing round me came and 

smiled, 
And wooed me from myself with thy sweet 

sight. 
Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 
For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? 
I know not that — but in the innate force 
Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 
Nor cause for such: they called me mad — 

and why ? 
Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 2 



1 [The opening lines biing the poet before us at 
once, as if the door of the dungeon was thrown 
open. From this bitter complaint, how nobly the 
unconquered bard rises" into calm, and serene, and 
dignified exultation over the beauty of " that young 
creation, his soul's child," the Gierusalemme Lib- 
erata. The exultation of conscious genius then 
dies away, and we behold him, "bound between 
distraction and disease," no longer in an inspired 
mood, but sunk into the lowest prostration of hu- 
man misery. There is something terrible in this 
transition from divine rapture to degraded agony. — 
IVilson.] 

- [In a letter written to his friend Scipio Gon- 
zaga, shortly after his confinement, Tasso exclaims 
— "Ah, wretched me! I had designed to write, 
Besides two epic poems of most noble argument, 
four tragedies, of which I had formed the plan. I 
had schemed, too, many works in prose, on sub- 

1'ects the most lofty, and most useful to human life ; I 
lad designed to write philosophy with eloquence, 
in such a mannei that there might remain of me an 



I was indeed delirious in my heart 
To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 
But still my frenzy was not of the mind ; 
I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 
Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind. 
Hath been the sin which shuts me from man- 
kind ; 
But let them go, or torture as they will, 
My heart can multiply thine image still ; 
Successful love may sate itself away. 
The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their fate 
To have all feeling save the one decay, 
And every passion into one dilate. 
As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 
But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 



Above me, hark 1 the long and maniac cry 

Of minds and bodies in captivity. 

And hark 1 the lash and the increasing howl, 

And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 

There be some here with worse than frenzy 

foul, 
Some who do still goad on the o'er-labored 

mind. 
And dim the little light that's left behind 
With needless torture, as their tyrant will 
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 3 
With these and with their victims am I classed, 
'Mid sounds and sights like these long years 

have passed ; 
'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may 

close : 
So let it be — for then I shall repose. 

IV, 
I have been patient, let me be so yet, 
I had forgotten half I would forget. 
But it revives — Oh I would it were my lot 
To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 
Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 



eternal memory in the world. Alas! I had ex- 
pected to close my life with glory and renown; but 
now, oppressed by the burden of so many calami- 
ties, I have lost every prospect of reputation and of 
honor. The fear of perpetual imprisonment in- 
creases my melancholy; the indignities which I 
suffer augment it; and the squalor of my beard, my 
hair, and habit, the sordidness and filth, exceed- 
ingly annoy me. Sure am I, that, if she who so 
little has corresponded to my attachment — ^ if she 
saw me in such a state, and in such affliction — she 
would have some compassion on me." — Opere, 
t. X. p. 387.] 

■' [For nearly the first year of his confinement 
Tasso w^s under the care of a gaoler whose chief 
virtue, although he was a poet and a man of letters, 
v/as a cruel obedience to the commands of his prince. 
His name was Agostino Mosti. Tasso says of him, 
in a letter to his sister, " he used me with every 
species of rigor and inhumanity."] 



174 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the 

mind, 
Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 
And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
Many, but each divided by the wall, 
Which echoes Madness in her babbling 

moods ; — 
While all can hear, none heed his neighbor's 

call — 
None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all. 
Who was not made to be the mate of these, 
Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me 

here ? 
Who have debased me in the minds of men. 
Debarring me the usage of my own. 
Blighting my life in best of its career. 
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and 

fear ? 
Would 1 not pay them back these pangs again. 
And teach them' inward Sorrow's stifled groan? 
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
Which undermines our Stoical success ? 
No! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
Have pardoned princes' insults, and would die. 
Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 
I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
It hath no business where ikon art a guest; 
Thy brother hates — but I cannot detest; i 
Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 



Look on a love which knows not to despair,2 
But all unquenched is still my better part. 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart 
As dwells the gathered lightning in its cloud. 
Encompassed with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart! 



1 [Not long after his imprisonment, Tasso ap- 
pealed to the mercy of Alfonso, in a canzone of 
great beauty, couched in terms so respectful and 
pathetic, as must have moved, it might be thought, 
the severest bosom to relent. The heart of Alfonso 
was, however, impregnable to the appeal; and 
Tasso, in another ode to the princesses, whose pity 
he invoked in the name of their own mother, who 
had herself known, if not the like horrors, the like 
solitude of imprisonment, and bitterness of soul. 
" Considered merelj' as poems," says Black, " these 
canzoni are extremely beautiful; but, if we con- 
template them as the productions of a mind diseased, 
they form important documents in the history of 
man." — Ltje of Tnsso, vol. ii. p. 408.] 

■- [As to "the indifference which the Princess is 
said to have exhibited for the misfortunes of Tasso, 
and the little effort she made to obtain his liberty, 
this is one of the negative arguments founded en an 
hypothesis that may be easily destroyed by a thou- 
sand others equally plausible. Was not the Princess 
anxious to avoid her own ruin? In taking too 
warm an interest for the poet, did she not risk de- 
stroying herself, without saving him? — Foscolo ] 



And thus at the collision of thy name 

The vivid thought still flashes through my 

frame. 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A Princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
And if my eyes revealed it, they, alas ! 
Were punished by the silentness of thine. 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipped at holy distance, and around 
Hallowed and meekly kissed the saintly 

ground ; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and arrayed 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismayed — 
Oh! not dismayed — but awed, like One 

above ; 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius mastered 

mine — 
My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design. 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me — but for 

thee. 
The very love which locked me to my chain 
Hath lightened half its weight; and for the 

rest. 
Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain, 
And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain. ^ 

VI. 
It is no marvel — from my very birth 
My soul was drunk with love, — which did 

pervade 
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 
Of objects all inanimate I made 
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise. 
Where I did lay me down within the shade 
Of waving trees, and dreamed uncounted 

hours. 
Though I was chid for wandering; and the 

Wise 
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and 

said 
Of such materials wretched men were made, 
And such a truant boy would end in woe. 



•'' [Tasso's profound and unconquerable love for 
Leonora, sustaining itself without hope throughout 
years of darkness and solitude, breathes a moral 
dignity over all his sentiments, and we feel the 
strength and power of his noble spirit in the un- 
upbraiding devotedness of his passion, — IVrfson,] 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



175 



And that the only lesson was a blow ; — 
And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
Returned and wept alone, and dreamed again 
The visions which arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 
And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 
But undefined and wandering, till the day 
I found the thing I sought — and that was 

thee ; 
And then Most my being all to be 
Absorbed in thine — the world was past 

away — 
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 



I loved all Solitude — but little thought 
To spend 1 know not what of life, remote 
From all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant ; — had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, 1 
But w^ho hath seen me writhe, or heard me 

rave ? 
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wrecked sailor on his desert shore ; 
The world is all before him — ini?ie is here 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my 

bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof. 
Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof. 

VIII. 
Yet do I feel at times my mind decline,2 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
But much to One, who long hath suffered so. 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place. 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
I thought mine enemies had been but Man, 



1 [MS. — "My mind like theirs adapted to its 
grave."] 

2 [" Nor do I lament," wrote Tasso, shortly after 
his confinement, " that my heart is deluged with 
almost constant misery, that my head is always 
heavy and often painful, that my sight and hearing 
are much impaired, and that all my frame is become 
spare and meagre; but, passing all this with a short 
sigh, what I would bewail is the infirmity of my 
mind. My mind sleeps, not thinks; my fancy is 
chill, and forms no pictures; my negligent senses 
will no longer furnish the images of things; my hand 
is sluggisli in writing, and my pen seems as if it 
shrunk from the office. I feel as if I were chained 
in all my operations, and as if I were overcome by 
an unwonted numbness and oppressive stupor." — 
Opere, t. yiii. p. 258. J 



But Spirits may be leagued with them — all 

Earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me; — in the 

dearth 
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
It may be, tempt me further, — and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. 
VVhy in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire ? because I 

loved ? 
Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 

IX. 
I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er; 
-My scars are callous, or I should have dashed 
My brain against these bars, as the sun 

flashed 
In mockery through them; — if I bear and 

bore 
The much I have recounted, and the more 
Which hath no words, — 'tis that I would not 

die 
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
Which snared me here, and with the brand 

of shame 
Stamp Madness deep into my memory, 
And woo Compassion to a blighted name, 
Sealing the.sentence which my foes proclaim. 
No — it shall be immortal 1 — and I make 
A future temple of my present cell, 
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.3 
While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 
And crumbling piecemeal view thv heartless 

halls, 
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, — 
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 
While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled 

walls ! ^ 
And thou, Leonora ! — thou — who wert 

ashamed 
That such as I could love — who blushed to 

hear 
To less than monarchs that thou couldst be 

dear. 
Go ! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed 
By grief, years, weariness, — and it may be 

3 [MS.— 
" Which j " ftl°"days' ! ^^^" ^'^^* ^°' '"y "^^^-"^ 

* [Those who indulge in the dreams of earthly 
retribution will observe, that the cruelty of Alfonso 
was not left without its recompense, even in his own 
person. He survived the afTeclion of his subjects 
and of his dependants, who deserted him at his 
death; and suffered his body to be interred without 
princely or decent honors. His last wishes were 
neglected; his testament cancelled. His kinsman, 
Don Csesar, shrank from the excommunication of 
the Vatican, and, after a short struggle, or rather 
suspense, Ferrara passed away for ever from thr 
dominion of thg honse of Este. — fiodhoiise.^ 



176 



ODE ON VENICE. 



A taint of that he would impute to me — 
From long infection of a den like this, 
Where the mind rots congenial with the 

abyss, 
Adores thee still ; — and add — that when the 

towers 
And battlements which guard his joyous 

hours 
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, 
Or left untended in a dull repose. 
This — this — shall be a consecrated spot! 
But Thou — when all that Birth and Beauty 

throws 
Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
No power in death can tear our names apart. 
As none in life could rend thee from my 

heart.i 
Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
To be entwined for ever — but too late ! 2 



[MS.— 



" As none in 
life could 



wrench 
rend 



thee from 
my heart.''] 



[The " pleasures of imagination " have been ex- 



plained and justified by Addison in prose, and by 
Akenside in verse; but there are moments of real 
life when its miseries and its necessities seem to 
overpower and destroy them. The history of man- 
kind, however, furnishes proofs, that no bodily suf- 
fering, no adverse circumstances, operating on oui 
material nature, will extinguish the spirit of imagi- 
nation. Perhaps there is no instance of this so very 
affecting and so very sublime as the case of Tasso. 
They who have seen the dark horror-striking dun- 
geon-hole at Ferrara, in which he was confined 
seven years under the imputation of madness, will 
have had this truth impressed upon their hearts in 
a manner never to be erased. In this vault, of 
which the sight makes the hardest heart shudder, 
the poet employed himself in finishing and correct- 
ing his immortal epic poem. Lord Byron's " La- 
ment " on this subject is as sublime and profound a 
lessoiioin morality, and in the pictures of the recesses 
of the human soul, as it is a production most elo- 
quent, most pathetic, most vigorous, and most 
elevating among the gifts of the Muse. The bosom 
which is not touched with it — the fancy which is 
not warmed, — the understanding which is not en- 
lightened and exalted by it, is not fit for human 
intercourse. If Lord Byron had written nothing 
but this, to deny him the praise of a grand poet 
would have been flagrant injustice or gross stupidity . 
— Sir Egerto7i Brydges.\ 



ODE ON VENICE. 



I. 

Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 

A loud lament along the sweeping sea! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
What should thy sons do ? — any thing but 

weep ; 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
Are they to those that were ; and thus they 

creep, 
Crouching and crab-like, through their sap- 
ping streets. 
Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred 

years 
Of wealth and glory turned to dust and tears ; 
And every monument the stranger meets, 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 



And even the Lion all subdued appears. 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum. 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
The soft waves, once all musical to song. 
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the 

throng 
Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
Were but the overheating of the heart, 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors. 
The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
When Vice walks forth with her unsoftened 

terrors. 
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
And Hope is nothing but a false delay. 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere 

death. 
When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 



OqE ON VENICE. 



177 



And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 

Of the cold staggering race which Death is 

winning, 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; 
Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay, 
To him appears renewal of his breath, 
And freedom the mere numbness of his 

chain; — 
And then he talks of life, and how again 
He feels his spirit soaring — albeit weak, 
A.nd of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 
f\.nd as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 
And so the film comes o'er him — and the dizzy 
Chamber swims round and round — and shad- 
ows busy, 
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, 
And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 

n. 
•There is no hope for nations ! — Search the 



page 
)fn 



Of many thousand years — the daily scene, 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age. 
The everlasting fo be which hath been. 
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean 
On things that rot beneath our weight, and 

wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; 
For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
Slaughtered in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order — they must go 
Even where their driver goads them, though 

to slaughter. 
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as 
1 water, 

I What have they given your children in return ? 

I A heritage of servitude and woes, 

A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 
\ What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares 

burn, 
j O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal. 

And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; 

Kissing the hand that guide.s you to your scars, 

And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 

II All that your sires have left you, all that Time 
Bequeathes of free, and History of sublime. 
Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and 

read. 

Admire and sigh, and then succumb and 
bleed ! 

Save the few spirits, who, despite of all, 

And worse than all, the sudden crimes engen- 
dered 

By the down-thundering of the prison-wall. 

And thirst to swallow the sweet waters ten- 
dered, 

Gushing from freedom's fountains — when the 
crowd. 

Maddened with centuries of draught, are loud. 



And trample on each other to obtain 
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they 

ploughed 
The sand, — or ifthere sprung the yellow grain, 
"Fwas not for them, their necks were too much 

bowed. 
And their dead palates chewed the cud of 

pain : — 
Yes! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws. 
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, 

smite 
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
With all her seasons to repair the blight 
With a fev/ summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 



Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers 
With Freedom ■ — godlike Triad ! how ye 
sate ! 
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 
When Venice was an envy, might abate, 
But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate 
All were enwrapped : the feasted monarchs 
knew 
And loved their hostess, nor could learn to 
hate. 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
She was the voyager's worship ; — even her 

crimes 
Were of the softer order — born of Love, 
She drank no blood, nor fattened on the dead, 
But gladdened where her harmless conquests 

spread ; 
For these restored the Cross, that from above 
Hallowed her sheltering banners, which inces- 
sant 
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may 

thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The liame of Freedom to her glorious strug- 
gles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common woe. 
And called the " kingdom " of a conquering 

foe, — 
But knows what all — and, most of all, we 

know — 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 

IV. 

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 

O'er the three fractions of the groaning 

globe ; 

Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 



178 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



If the free Svv itzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, 
For tyranny of late is cunning grown, 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean 
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, 

and 
Bequeathed — a heritage of heart and hand, 
And proud distinction from each other land. 
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's 

motion. 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime. 
Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag. 



The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag. 
May strike to those whose red right hands 

have bought 
Rights cheaply earned with blood. — Still, still, 

for ever 
Better, though each man's life-blood were a 

river. 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins. 
Dammed like the dull canal with locks and 

chains, 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
Three paces, and then faltering : — better be 
Where the extinguished Spartans still are free, 
In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add. 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had. 
One freeman more, America, to thee ! 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY< 



Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the 
benefits of your own country; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you 
that countenance you are; or I will scarce think that you have swam in a Gondola. 

As Yon Like It, Act IV. Sc. i. 

Annotation of the Commentators. 

That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those time!-, and 
was then what Paris is now — the seat of all dissoluteness. — S. A.^ 



INTRODUCTION. 



Beppo was written at Venice, in October, 1817, and acquired great popularity immediately on its pub- 
lication in the May of the following year. Byron's letters show that he attached very little importance 
to it at the time. He was not aware that he had opened a new vein, in which his genius was destined to 
work out some of his brightest triumphs. " I have written," he says to Mr. Murray, " a poem humor- 
ous, in or after the excellent manner of Mr. Whistlecraft, and founded 011 a Venetian anecdote which 
amused me. It is called Beppo— rho. short name for Giuseppo, — that is, the Joe of the Italian Joseph. 
It has politics and ferocity." Again — " Whistlecraft is my immediate model, but Berni is the father of 
that kind of writing; which, I think, suits our language, too, very well. We shall see by this experi- 
ment. It will, at any rate, show that I can write cheeifiiUy, and repel the charge of monotony and 
mannerism." He wished Mr. Murray to accept of Beppo as a free gift, or, as he chose to express it, " as 
part of the contract for Canto Fourth of Childe Harold; " adding, however, — " if it pleases, you shall 
have more in the same mood: for I know the Italian way of life, and, as for the verse and the/ajjwwj, 
I have them still in tolerable vigor." 

1 [Roger Ascham, Queen Elizabeth's tutor, says, in his " Schoolmaster," — " Although I was only 
nine days at Venice, I saw, in that little time, more liberty to sin, than ever I heard tell of m the city ol 
London in nine years."] 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



179 



John Hookham Frere has the merit of having iiUrodiiced the Bernesque style into our language; but 
his performance, entitled " Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National Work, by William and 
Robert Whistlecraft, of Stowmarket, in Suffolk, Harness and Collar Makers, intended to comprise the 
most interesting Particulars relating to King Arthur and his Round Table," though it delighted all ele- 
gant and learned readers, obtained at the time little notice from the public at large, and is already almost 
forgotten. For the causes of this failure, it appears needless to look further than the last sentence we 
have been quoting from the letters of the author of the more successful Beppo. Whistlecraft had th< 
verse: it had also the humor, the wit, and even the poetry of the Italian model; but it wanted the life 
of actual manners, and the strength of stirring passions. Mr. Frere had forgot, or was, with all his 
genius, to profit by remembering, that the poets, whose unfit style he was adopting, always made their 
style appear a secondary matter. They never failed to embroider their merriment on the texture of a 
really interesting story. Byron perceived this; and avoiding his immediate master's one fatal error, and 
at least equalling him in the excellences which he did display, engaged at once the sympathy of readers 
of every class, and became substantially the founder of a new species of English poetry. 



I. 

Tis known, at least it should be, that through- 
out 
All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 
Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes 
about, 
The people take their fill of recreation, 
And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
However high their rank, or low their 
station, 
With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, 

masquing, 
And other things which may be had for asking. 

II. 
The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
The skies (and the more duskily the better). 
The time less liked by husbands than by 
lovers 
Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 
And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers. 

Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 
And there are songs and quavers, roaring, 

humming. 
Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 

III. 

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 

. Masks of all times and nations, Turks and 
Jews, 

And" harlequins and clowns, with feats gym- 
nastical, 
Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hin- 
doos; 

All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical. 
All people, as their fancies hit, may choose. 

But no one in these parts may quiz the 
clergy, — 

Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers! I 
charge ye. 



IV. 

You'd better walk about begirt with briars, 
Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put 
on 
A single stitch reflecting upon friars. 

Although you swore it only was in fun ; 
They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the 
fires 
Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, 
Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 
That boiled your bones, unless you paid them 
double. 

V. 

But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 

Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 

And even in Italy such places are, 

With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 

For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 

No place that's called "Piazza" in Great 
Britain. 

\'I. 

This feast is named the Carnival,! which being 

Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh : " 
So called, because the name and thing agree- 
ing, 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt 
and fresh. 



1 ["The Carnival," says Mr. Rose, " though it 
is gayer or duller, according to the genius of the 
nations which celebrate it, is, in its general char- 
acter, nearly the same all over the peninsula. The 
beginning is like any other season; towards the 
middle you begin to meet masques and murmurs in 
sunshine: in the last fifteen days the plot thickens; 
and during the three last all is hurly-burly. The 
shops are shut, all business is at a stand, and the 
drunken cries heard at night afford a cle.nr proof of 
the pleasures to which these days of leisure are 
dedicated." — Letters/rom the North of Italy. ^ 



180 



BEPPO: A VEJ^ETIAN STOPY. 



But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 

Is more than I can tell, although I guess 
'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting. 
In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 

VII. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts. 

To live for forty days on ill-dressed fishes, 
Because they have no sauces to their stews, 

A thing which causes many " poohs " and 
" pishes," 
And several oaths (which would not suit the 
Muse), 

From travellers accustomed from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 

VIII. 
And therefore humbly I would recommend 

" The curious in fish-sauce," before they 
cross 
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend. 

Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross 
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 

By any means least liable to loss), 
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
Or, by the Lord 1 a Lent will well nigh starve 
ye; 

IX. 
That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 

And you at Rome would do as Romans do. 
According to the proverb, — although no man. 

If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 
If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman. 

Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
Dine and be d — d ! I don't mean to be coarse. 
But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 



Of all the places where the Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore. 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball. 
And masque, and mime, and mystery, and 
more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, — 

And at the moment when I fix my story. 

That sea-born city was in all her glory. 

XI. 
They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
Black eyes, arched brows, and sweet ex- 
pressions still ; 
Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 

In ancient arts by moderns mimicked ill ; 
And like so many Venuses of Titian's 

(The best's at Florence i — see it, if ye will,) 

1 [" At Florence I remained but a day, having a 
hurry for Rome. However, I went to the two gal- 
leries, from which one returns drunk with beauty; 
but there are sculpture and painting, which, for the 



They look when leaning over the balcony. 
Or stepped from out a picture by Giorgione,^ 



Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace go ,3 
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 

Is loveliest to my mind of all the show; 
It may perhaps be also to your zest. 

And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so : 
'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife. 
And self; but suck a woman ! love in life ! 



Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 

But something better still, so very real. 
That the sweet model must have been the 
same, 

A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
Wer't not impossible, besides a shame : 

The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain. 

You once have seen, but ne'er will see again ; 

XIV. 

One of those forms which fiit by us, when we 
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 

And, oh ! the loveliness at times we see 
In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 

The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree. 
In many a nameless being we retrace, 



first time, gave me an idea of what people mean by 
their cant, about those two most artificial of the 
arts. What struck me most were, — the mistress of 
Raphael, a portrait; the mistress of Titian, a por- 
trait; a Venus of Titian, in the Medici gallery — 
if/(!^ Venus; Canova's Venus, also in the other gal- 
lery," etc. — Byron's Letters, 1817.] 

- [" I know nothing of pictures myself, and care 
almost as little; but to me there are none like the 
Venetian — above all, Giorgione. I remember well 
his judgment of Solomon, in the Mariscalchi gallery 
in Bologna. The real mother is beautiful, exquis- 
itely beautiful." — Byroii's Letters, 1820.] 

2 [The following is Byron's account of his visit 
to this palace, in April, 1817. — "To-day, I have 
been over the Manfrini palace, famous for its pict- 
ures. What struck most in the general collection, 
was the extreme resemblance of the style of the 
female faces in the mass of pictures, so many cen- 
turies or generations old, to those you see and meet 
every day among the existing Italians. The Queen 
of Cyprus and Giorgione's wife,* particularly the 
latter, are Venetians as it were of yesterday; the 
same eyes and expression, and, to my mind, there 
is none finer. You must recollect, however, that I 
know nothing of painting, and that I detest it, un- 
less it reminds me of something I have seen, or 
think it possible to see."] 



* [This appears to be an incorrect description ol 
the picture; as, according to Vasari and others, 
Giorgione never was married, and died young.] 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



181 



Whose course and home we knew not, nor 

shall know, 
Like the lost Pleiad i seen no more below. 

XV. 
I said that like a picture by Giorgione 

Venetian women were, and so they are, 
Particularly seen from a balcony, 

(For beauty's sometimes best set off afar) 
And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or o'er the 
bar ; 
And truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, 
And rather like' to show it, more's the pity! 

XVI. 
For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs. 
Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a 
letter, 
Which flies on wings of light-heeled Mercuries, 
Who do such things because they know no 
better, 
And then, God knows, what mischief may 
arise, 
When love links two young people in one 
fetter, 
Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, 
Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and 
heads. 

XVII. 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
As very fair, but yet suspect in fame,2 

And. to this day from Venice to Verona 
Such matters may be probably the same, 

Except that since those times was never 
known a 
Husband whom mere suspicion could in- 
flame 

To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 

Because she had a " cavalier servente." 

XVIII. 

Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 
Is of a fair complexion altogether, 

Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 
Which smothers women in a bed of feather. 

But worthier of these much more jolly fellows. 
When weary of the matrimonial tether 

His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 

But take at once another, or another's.^ 



' "Quae septeni dici sex tamen esse soieat." — 
Ovid. 

2 ["Lookto't: 

In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks 
They dare not shc»v their husbands; their best 

conscience 
Is — not to leave undone, but keep unknown." 
Othello.'] 

3 [" Jealousy is not the order of the day in Venice, 
and daggers are out of fashion, while duels on love 
matters are unknown — at least, with the hus- 
bands." — ByroyCs Letters.] 



Didst ever see a Gondola ? For fear 

You should not, I'll describe it you exactly : 
'Tis a long covered boat that's common here, 
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but com- 
pactly ; 
.Rowed by two rowers, each called " Gon- 
dolier," 
It glides along the water looking blackly, 
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 
Where none can make out what you say or 
do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go, 
And under the Rialto 4 shoot along, 

By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 
And round the theatres, a sable throng, 

They wait in their dusk livery of woe, — 
But not to them do woful things belong. 

For sometimes they contain a deal of fun. 

Like mourning coaches when the funeral's 
done. 

XXI. 

But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, 
It may be thirty, forty, more or less, 

The carnival was at its height, and so 
Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 

A certain lady went to see the show. 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 

And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, 

Because it slips into my verse with ease. 

XXII. 

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a " certain age" 

Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 

A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears. 
To name, define by speech, or write on 
page. 

The period meant precisely by that word, — 

Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 

XXIII. 

Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time returned the compliment. 

And treated her genteelly, so that, dressed, 
She looked extremely well where'er she 
went ; 

A pretty woman is a welcome guest, 
And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent. 



* [An English abbreviation. Rialto is the name, 
not of the bridge, but of the island from which it is 
called; and the Venetians say, ii ponte di Rialto, as 
we say Westminster Bridge. In that island is the 
Exchange. It was there that the Christian held 
discourse with the Jew; and Shylock refers to it, 
when he says, 
" Signor Antonio, many a time and oft, 
In the Rialto, you have rated me." — Ro^rs-] 



182 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



Indeed she shone all smiles, and seemed to 

flatter 
Mankind with her black eyes for looking at 

her. 

XXIV. 

She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient, 
Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 

To view their little slips with eyes more leni- 
ent; 
Whereas if single ladies play the fool, 

( Unless within the period intervenient 
A well-timed wedding makes the scandal 
cool ) 

I don't know how they ever can get over it, 

Except they manage never to discover it. 

XXV. 

Her husband sailed upon the Adriatic, 

And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 
And when he lay in quarantine for pratique 
( A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), 
His wife would mount, at times, her highest 
attic, 
For thence she could discern the ship with 
ease: 
He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 
His name Giuseppe, called more briefly, 
Beppo. 

XXVI. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 

Though colored, as it were, within a tanyard. 
He was a person both of sense and vigor — 

A better seaman neyer yet did man yard : 
And she, although her manner showed no 
rigor. 

Was deemed a woman of the strictest princi- 
ple, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met ; 
Some people thought the ship was lost, and 
some 
That he had somehow blundered into debt. 
And did not hke the thought of steering 
home ; 
And there were several offered any bet, 
Or that he would, or that he would not 
come, 
For most men (till by losing rendered sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

XXVIII. 

'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic. 
As partings often are, or ought to be. 

And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
That they should never more each other 
see. 



(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 
Which I have known occur in two or 
three,) 
When kneeling on the shore upon her sad 

knee, 
He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 

XXIX. 

And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 
And thought of wearing weeds, as well she 
might ; 
She almost lost all appetite for victual, 
And could not sleep with ease alone at 
night ; 
She deemed the window-frames and shutters 
brittle 
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, 
And so she thought it prudent to connect her 
With a vice-husband, chiejiy to protect her. 

XXX. 

She chose, (and what is there they will not 
choose. 
If only you will but oppose their choice?) 
Till Beppo should return from his long 
cruise, 
And bid once more her faithful heart re- 
joice, 
A man some women like, and yet abuse — 

A coxcomb was he by the pubhc voice ; 
A Count of wealth, they said, as well as 

quality. 
And in his pleasures of great liberality .1 

XXXI. 

And then he was a Count, and then he knew 
Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and 
Tuscan ; 

The last not easy, be it known to you, 
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too, 
And knew all niceties of the sock and bus- 
kin ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura ! " 

XXXII. 

His " bravo " was decisive, for that sound 
Hushed "Academic" sighed in silent awe; 

The fiddlers trembled as he looked around. 
For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 

The " prima donna's " tuneful heart would 
bound, 
Dreading the deep damaation of his " bah ! " 

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto. 

Wished him five fathom under the Rialto. 



[MS.— 

" A Count of wealth inferior to his quality, 
Which somewhat limited his liberality." 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



183 



XXXIII. 
He patronized the Improvisatori, 
Nay, could himself extemporize some 

stanzas, 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tcl! a 

story, 
Sold pictures, and was skilful in the d., ui 

as 
Italians can be, though in this their glory 
Must surely yield the palm to that which 

France has ; 
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
And to his very valet seemed a hero. 

XXXIV. 
Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous ; 

So that no sort of female could complain, 
Although they're now and then a little clamor- 
ous. 
He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 
His heart was one of those which most 
enamour us, 
Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
He was a lover of the good old school. 
Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 
No wonder such accomplishments should 
turn 
A female head, however sage and steady — 
With scarce a hope that Beppo could return. 

In law he was almost as good as dead, he 
Nor sent, nor wrote, nor showed the least 
concern. 
And she had waited several years already ; 
And really if a man won't let us know 
That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 
Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 

(Although, God knows, it is a grievous 
sin,) 
'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 

I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 
But " Cavalier Serventes " are quite common. 

And no one notices nor cares a pin ; 
And we may call this (not to say the worst) 
A second marriage which corrupts \\\e first. 

XXXVII. 

The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 

The Spaniards call the person a "Cortejo," i 
For the same mode subsists in Spain, though 
recent ; 

In short it reaches from the Po to Teio. 



1 Cortejo is pronounced Corte//o, with an aspirate, 
according to the Arabesque guttural. It means 
what there is as yet no precise name for in England, 
though the practice is as common as in any tramon- 
tane country whatever. 



And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea 

sent. 
But Heaven preserve Old England from such 

courses 1 
Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 

XXXVlll. 
However, I still think, with all due deferenca 

To the fair single part of the Creation, 
That married ladies should preserve the pre- 
ference 

In tete-a-tete or general conversation — 
And this I say without peculiar reference 

To England, France, or any other nation — 
Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 

'Tis true your budding Miss is very charm- 
ing, 
But shy and awkward at first coming out. 
So much alarmed, that she is quite alarming. 
All Giggle, Blush ; half Pertness, and half 
Pout ; 
And glancing at Majntna, for fear there's 
harm in 
What you, she, it, or they, may be about. 
The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 
Besides, thev always smell of bread and but- 
ter. 

XL. 

But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase 
Used in politest circles to express 

This supernumerary slave, who stays 
Close to the lady as a part of dress. 

Her word the only law which he obeys. 
He is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 

Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 

And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XLI. 

With all its sinful doings, I must say, 
'1 hat Italy's a pleasant place to me. 

Who love to see the Sun shine every day. 
And vines (not nailed to walls) from tree to 
tree 

Festooned, much like the back scene of a 
play. 
Or melodrame which people flock to see. 

When the first act is ended by a dance 

In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out. 
Without being forced to bid my groom be 
sure 
My cloak is round his middle strapped about. 
Because the skies-are not the most secure ; 
I know too that, if stopped upon my rout. 
Where the green alleys windingly allure, 



184 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the 

way, — 
In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 
I also like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow. 
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak 
as 
A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sor- 
row, 
But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will 
break as 
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to 
borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glim- 
mers 
While reeking London's smoky caldron sim- 
mers. 

XLIV. 
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
Which melts like kisses from a female 
mouth, 
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
With syllables which breathe of the sweet 
South, 
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 

That not a single accent seems uncouth, 
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting 

guttural. 
Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and 
sputter all. 

XLV. 
I like the women too (forgive my folly), 
From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy 
bronze, 1 
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand things at once. 
To the high dama's brow, more melancholy. 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes. 
Soft as her clime,^ and sunny as her skies. 

XLVI. 
Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 
Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
Raphael,^ who died in thy embrace, and vies 
\Vith all we know of Heaven, or can desire. 
In what he hath bequeathed us? — in what 
guise. 
Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre, 
Would Words describe thy past and present 

glow, 
While yet Canova can create below ?* 



' [MS. — " From the tall peasant with her ruddy 
bronze."] 

2 [MS. — "Like her own clime, all sun, and 
bloom and skies."] 

3 For the received accoonts of the cause of 
Raphael's death, see his lives. 

•* (In trilking thus, the writer, more especially 
Of women, would be understood to say, 



XLVII. 
" England I with all thy faults I love thee still," 

I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 

I like the government (but that is not it) ; 
I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got 

I like a parliamentary debate. 
Particularly when 'tis not too late ; 

XLVI II. 
I like the taxes, when they're not too many; 

I. like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear; 
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
I like the weather, when it is not ramy. 

That is, I like two months of every year. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and 

King! 
Which means that I like all and every thing. 

XLIX. 

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen. 
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's 
debt, 

Our little riots just to show we are free men, 
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 
All these I can forgive, and those forget, 

And greatly venerate our recent glories. 

And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 

L. 
But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to the mind, 

And, therefore, may the reader too dis- 
please — 
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind. 

And caring little for the author's ease, 
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 



Oh that I had the art of easy writing 

What should be easy reading ! could I scale 

Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
Those pretty poems never known to fail. 

How quickly would I print (the world delight- 
ing) 
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale ; 



He speaks as a spectator, not officially, 
And always, reader, in a modest way; 
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 

Appear to have offended in this lay. 
Since, as all know, without the sex, our son- 
nets 
Would seem unfinished, like their untrimmed 
bonnets.) 

(Signed) POINTER'S Devil. 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



185 



And sell you, mixed with western sentimen- 

talism, 
Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 

LII. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling 
verse on. 
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels. 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 

I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, 

But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIII. 

The Count and Laura made their new 
arrangement, 
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes 
do, 
For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 

They had their little differences, too ; 
Those jealous whiffs, which never any change 
meant ; 
In such affairs there probably are few 
Who have not had this pouting sort of squab- 
ble. 
From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

Liv. 
But on the whole, they were a happy pair. 
As happy as unlawful love could make 
them. 
The gentleman was fond, the lady fair. 

Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while 
to break them : 
The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
The pious only wished "the devil take 
them ! " 
He took them not ; he very often waits. 
And leaves old sinners to be young ones' 
baits. 

LV. 

But they were young : Oh ! what without our 
youth 
Would love be! What would youth be 
without love ! 
Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigor, truth. 
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from 
above ; 
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
One of few things experience don't improve. 
Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 
Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVI. 

It was the Carnival, as I have said 
Some six and thirty stanzas back, and 

Laura the usual preparations made, 

Which you do when your mind's made up 
to go 



To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 

Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
The only difference known between the cases 
Is — here, we have six weeks of "varnished 
faces." 

LVII. 

Laura, when dressed, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen. 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door. 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
With all the fashions which the last month 
wore, 
Colored, and silver paper leaved between 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of 
dress. 

LVIII. 

They went to the Ridotto ; — 'tis a hall 

Where people dance, and sup, and dance 
again ; 
Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued 
ball, 
But that's of no importance to my strain ; 
'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 

Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 
The company is " mixed " (the phrase I 

quote is 
As much as saying, they're below your notice) ; 

Lix. 

For a " mixed company " implies that, save 
Yourself and friends, and half a hundred 
more, 
Whom you may bow to without looking 
grave, 
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
Of public places, where they basely brave 

The fashionable stare of twenty score 
Of well-bred persons, called " the World; " 

but I, 
Although I know them, really don't know why. 



This is the case in England ; at least was 
During the dynasty of Dandies.i now 

Perchance succeeded by some other class 
Of imitated iinitators : — how 

Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 
The demagogues of fashion: all below 

Is frail; how easily the world is lost 

By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 



1 [" I liked the Dandies: they were always very 
civil to me; though, in general, they disliked liter- 
ary people, and persecuted and mystified Madame 
De Stael, Lewis, Horace Tvviss, and the like. The 
truth is, that though I gave up the business early, 
I had a tinge of Dandyism m my minority, and 
probably retained enough of t'i to conciliate the 
great ones, at four and twenty." — Byroris Diary, 
18.1.] 



186 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



LXI. 

Crushed was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Who knocked his army down with icy ham- 
mer, 
Stopped by the elements} like a whaler, or 
A blundering novice in his new French 
grammar, 
Good cause had he to doubt the chance of 
war, 
And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her 
Because, were I to ponder to infinity. 
The more I should believe in her divinity.'^ 

LXII. 

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 
She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and 
marriage ; 
I cannot say that she's done much for me yet ; 
Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, 
We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall 
see yet 
How much she'll make amends for past 
miscarriage ; 
Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune. 
Unless to thank her when she's made my for- 
tune. 

LXIII. 

To turn, — and to return; — the devil take it! 

This story slips forever through my fingers, 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it. 

It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
This form of verse began, I can't well break it, 

But must keep time and tune hke public 
singers ; 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
I'll take another when I'm next at leisure. 

LXIV. 

They went to the Ridotto ('tis a place 

To which I mean to go myself to-morrow,3 
Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 



1 [" When Brummell was obliged to retire to 
France, he knew no French, and having obtained a 
grammar for the purpose of study, our friend Scrope 
Davies was asked what progress Brummell had 
made in French: he responded, 'that Brummell 
had been stopped, like Bonaparte in Russia, by the 
elements' I have put this pun into Beppo, which 
is ' a fair exchange and no robbery ; ' for Scrope 
made his fortune at several dinners (as he owned 
himself) , by repeating occasionally, as his own, some 
of the buffooneries with which 1 had encountered 
him in the morning." — Byrori' s Diary, 1821.] 

2 [" Like Sylla, I have always believed that all 
things depend upon Fortune, and nothing upon our- 
selves. I am not aware of any one thought or 
action, worthy of being called good to myself or 
others, which is not to be attributed to the good 
goddess — Fortune! " — Byron's Diary , 1821.] 

3 [In the margin of the original MS. Byron has 
written — "January 19th, 1818. To-morrow will be a 
Sunday, and full Kidotto."J 



Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow 
Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
May lurk beneath each mask ; and as my 

sorrow 
Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find, 
Something shall leave it half an hour uehind), 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd. 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 

To some she whispers, other speaks aloud ; 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips 

Complains of warmth, and this complain! 
avowed. 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being dressed so ill. 

LXVI. 

One has false curls, another too much pain^, 
A third — where did she buy that frightful 
turban ? 
A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to 
faint, 
A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and 
suburban, 
A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her 
bane. 
And lo 1 an eighth appears, — "I'll see no 

more! " 
For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a 
score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their looks at her ; 

She heard the men's half-whispered mode of 
praising. 
And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir ; 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That, at her time of life, so many were 

Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

LXVIII. 

For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 
Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 

A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
I only don't see why it should be thus ; 

And if I were but in a gown and band. 
Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 

I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Roniiily 

Should quote in their next speeches from my 
homily. 

LXIX. 

While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smil- 
ing. 
Talking, she knew not why and cared not 
what, 

So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



187 



Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 
And well-dressed males still kept before her 
filing, 
And passing bowed and mingled with her 
chat; 
More than the rest one person seemed to stare 
With pertinacity that's rather rare. 

LXX, 

He was a Turk, the color of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad. 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny. 
Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 
'Tis said they use no better than a dog any 
Poor woman, whom they purchase like a 
pad: 
They have a number, though they ne'er ex- 
hibit 'em, 
Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libi- 
tum." 

LXXI. 

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them 
daily, 
They scarcely can behold their male rela- 
tions, 
So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
As is supposed the case with northern na- 
tions ; 
Confinement, too, must make them look quite 
palely ; 
And as the Turks abhor long conversations. 
Their days are either passed in doing nothing. 
Or bathing, nursing, making love, and cloth- 
ing. 

LXXII. 

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criti- 
cism ; 
Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 
Have no romances, sermons, plays, re- 
views, — 
In harams learning soon would make a pretty 
schism I 
But luckily these beauties are no " Blues," 
No bustlingBotherbys have they to show 'em 
"That charming passage in the last new 
poem." 

LXXIII. 
No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme. 

Who having angled all his life for fame, 
And getting but a nibble at a time, 

Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 

Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 
The echo's echo, usher of the school 
Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ! 

LXXIV. 

A stalking oracle of awful phrase. 

The approving " Good!" (by no means 
GOOD in law) 



Humming like flies around the newest blaze. 

The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw. 
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw. 
Translating tongues he knows not even by 

letter, 
And sweating plays so middling, bad were 
better. 

LXXV. 
One hates an author that's all author, fellows 

In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink. 
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous. 
One don't know what to say to them, or 
think. 
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; 
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the 
pink 
Are preferable to these shreds of paper. 
These unquenched snuffings of the midnight 
taper. 

LXXVI. 
Of these same we see several, and of others, 
Men of the world, who know the world like 
men, 
Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better 
brothers. 
Who think of something else besides the 
pen; 
But for the children of the " mighty mother's," 
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 
I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 
Smug coterie, and literary lady. 

LXXVII. 

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I men- 
tion 
Have none of these instructive pleasant 
people. 
And one would seem to them a new invention. 
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 
I think 'twould almost be worth while to pen- 
sion 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap 
ill) 
A missionary author, just to preach 
Our Christain usage of the parts of speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No chemistry for them unfolds her gases. 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures. 

No circulating library amasses 

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 
No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 

The^v stare not on the stars from out their 
attics, 

Nor deal ( thank God for that 1 ) in mathe- 
matics. 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 



188 



BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 



And as, perhaps, they would not highly flat- 
ter, 
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in 
prose ; 
I fear I have a little turn for satire. 

And yet methinks the older that one grows 
Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though 

laughter 
Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 

LXXX. 

Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and 
Water ! 
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter. 

Abominable Man no more allays 
His thirst with such pure beverage. No mat- 
ter, 
I love you both, and both shall have my 
praise. 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 

LXXXI/ 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her. 

Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 

Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you 

honor, 

" And while I please to stare, you'll please 

to stay : " 

Could staring win a woman, this had won her. 

But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 
She had stood fire too long and well, to 

boggle 
Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

LXXXII. 

The morning now was on the point of break- 
ing, 

A turn of time at which I would advise 
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 

In any other kind of exercise, 
To make their preparations for forsaking 

The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise. 
Because when once the lamps and candles 

fail. 
His blushes make them look a little pale. 



I've seen some balls and revels in my time. 

And stayed them over for some silly reason. 
And then I looked (I hope it was no crime) 

To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
And though I've seen some thousands in their 
prime, 
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may 
please on, 
I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn), 
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the 
dawn. 



LXXXIV. 

The name of this Aurora I'll not mention. 
Although I might, for she was nought to me 

More than that patent work of God's inven- 
tion, 
A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 

But writing names would merit reprehension. 
Yet if you like to find out this fair she. 

At the next London or Parisian ball 

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming 
all. 

LXXXV. 

Laura, who knew it would not do at all 
To meet the daylight after seven hours' sit- 
ting 
Among three thousand people at a ball, 
To make her curtsy thought it right and 
fitting ; 
The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 
And they the room were on the point of 
quitting, 
When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 
Just in the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they're like our coachmen, and the 
cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, 
hauling. 
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws. 

They make a never intermitting bawling. 
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the 
laws. 
And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 
But for all that, there is a deal of swearing. 
And nauseous words past mentioning or bear- 
ing. 

LXXXV 1 1. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, 

Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 

Some little scandals eke : but all aghast 
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 

Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer.i 

When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

LXXXVIII. 

" Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding 
grave, 

"Your unexpected presence here will make 
" It neCessary for myself to crave 

" Its import ? Biit perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 
" I hope it is so ; and at once to wave 

"All compliment, I hope so iox your sake; 
"You understand my meaning, or you shall." 
" Sir," (quoth the Turk) " ' tis no mistake at all. 

1 [MS. — " Sate Laura with a kind of comic hor- 
ror."] 



BEPPO: A VENETIAAr STORY, 



189 



I.XXXIX. 

'That Lady is my wife.'" Much wonder 
paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 
But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 

Italian females don't do so outright ; 
They only call a little on their saints. 

And then come to themselves, almost or 
quite; 
Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and 

sprinkling faces. 
And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 



She said, — what could she say ? Why, not a 
word : 
But the Count courteously invited in 
The stranger, much appeased by what he 
heard : 
" Such things, perhaps, w'e'd best discuss 
within," 
Said he ; "don't let us make ourselves absurd 

" In pubhc, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
For then the chief and only satisfaction 
Will be much quizzing on the whole trans- 
action." 

XCI. 

They entered, and for coffee ca;lled — it came, 

A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 

Although the way they make it's not the same. 

Now Laura, much recovered, or less loth 
To speak, cries, " Beppo ! what's your pagan 
name ? 
Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
And how came you to keep away so long ? 
Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong ? 

XCI I. 
And are you really, truly, now a Turk ? 
With any other women did you wive ? 
Is't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 
Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm 
alive ! 
You'll give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me! did I ever? No, I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow ! How's your 
hver ? 

XCIII. 
Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not ; 
It shall be shaved before you're a day older : 
Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 
Pray don't you think the weather here is 
colder? 
How do I look ? You shan't stir from this 
spot 
In that queer dress, for fear that some be- 
holder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is ! Lord ! how gray it's 
grown 1 " 



XCIV. 
What answer Beppo made to these demands 

Is more than I know. He was cast away 
About where Troy stood once, and nothing 
stands. 

Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 

Of i)irates landing in a neighboring bay. 
He joined the rogues and prospered, and be- 

• came 
A renegado of indifferent fame. 

xcv. 
But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 

Keen the desire to see his home again. 
He thought himself in duty bound to do so. 
And not be always thieving on the main : 
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 

And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 
Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca. 
Manned with twelve hands, and laden with to- 
bacco. 

xcvi. 
Himself, and much (heaven knows how 
gotten!) cash. 
He then embarked with risk of life and 
Umb, 
And got clear off, although the attempt was 
rash ; 
He said that Providence protected him — 
For my part, I say nothing — lest we clash 

In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim. 
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on. 
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 

XCVII. 
They reached the island, he transferred his 
lading. 
And self and live stock, to another bottom, 
And passed for a true Turkey-merchant, trad- 
ing 
With goods of various names, but I've for- 
got 'em. 
However, he got off by this evading. 
Or else the people would perhaps have shot 
him ; 
And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 
His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 

XCVIII. 
His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized 
him, 
(He made the church a present, by the way) ; 
He then threw off the garments which dis- 
guised him. 
And borrowed the Count's smallclothes for 
a day: 
His friends the more for his long absence 
prized him. 
Finding he'd wherewithal to make them 

gay, 



190 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



With dinners, where he oft became the laugh 

of them, 
For stories — but / don't beheve the half of 

them. 

xcix. 

Whate'er his youth had suffered, his old 
age 
With wealth and talking make him some 
amends ; 
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
I've heard the Count and he were always 
friends. 
My pen is at the bottom of a page, 

Which being finished, here the story ends ; 
'Tis to be wished it had been sooner done, 
But stories somehow lengthen when begun.i 



' [This extremely clever and amusing perform- | 
ance affords a very curious and complete specimen 
of a kind of diction and composition of which our | 
English literature has hitherto presented very few | 
examples. It is, in itself, absolutely a thing of noth- | 
ing — without story, characters, sentiments, or in- 
telligible object; — a mere piece of lively and loqua- 
cious prattling, in short, upon all kinds of frivolous 
subjects, — a sort of gay and desultory babbling 



about Italy and England, Tuiks, balls, literature, 
and fish sauces. But still there is something very 
engaging in the uniform gaiety, politeness, and good 
humor of the author, and something still more strik- 
ing and admirable in the matchless facility with 
which he has cast into regular, and even difficult, 
versification the unmingled, unconstrained, and un- 
selected language of the most light, familiar, and 
ordinary conversation. With great skill and felicity, 
he has furnished us with an example of about one 
hundred stanzas of good verse, entirely composed of 
common words, in their common places; never pre- 
senting us with one sprig of what is called poetital 
diction, or even making use of a single inversion, 
either to raise the style or assist the rhyme — but 
running on in an inexhaustible series of good easy 
colloquial phrases, and finding them fall into verse 
by some unaccountable and happy fatality. In this 
great and characteristic quality it is almost invari- 
ably excellent. In some other respects, it is more 
unequal. About one half is as good as possible, in 
the style to which it belongs; the other half bears, 
perhaps, too many marks of that haste with which 
such a work must necessarily be written. Some 
passages are rather too snappish, and some run too 
much on the cheap and rather plebeian humor of out- 
of-the-way-rhymes, and strange-sounding words and 
epithets. But the greater part is extremely pleas- 
ant, amiable, and gentlemanlike. — J^ff^'^y-\ 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE.» 



■ 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before." 

Campbell. 



[This poem, which Lord Byron, in sending it to Mr. Murray, called " the best thing he had ever done, 
if not unintelligible,' was written in the summer of 1819, at 

" that place 

Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea, 
Ravenna! — where from Dante's sacred tomb 
He had so oft, as many a verse declares. 
Drawn inspiration." — Rogers. 

The Prophecy, however, was first published in May, 1821. It is dedicated to the Countess Guiccioli, 
who thus describes the origin of its composition: — " On my departure from Venice, Lord Byron iiad 
promised to come and see me at Ravenna. Dante's tomb, the classical pine wood,- the relics of antiquity 



1 [Dante Alighieri was born in Florence in May, 1265, of an ancient and honorable family. In the 
early part of his life he gained some credit in a military character, and distinguished himself by his brav- 
ery in an action where the Florentines obtained a signal victory over the citizens of Arczzo. He became 
still more eminent by the acquisition of court honors; and at the age of thirty-five he rose to be one of 
the chief magistrates of Florence, when that dignity was conferred by the suffrages of the people. From 
this exaltation the poet himself dated his principal misfortunes. Italy was at that time distracted by the 
contending factions of the Ghibelines and Guelphs, -^ among the latter Dante took an active part. l.i 
one of the proscriptions he was banished, his possessions confiscated, and he died in exile in 1321.] 
2 " 'Twas in a grove of spreading pines he strayed," etc. 

Dkvden's Theodore and Honoria. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 191 



which are to be found in tliat place, afforded a sufficient pretext for me to invite him to come, and for him 
to accept my invitation. He came in the month of June, 1819, arriving at Ravenna on the day of the 
festival of the Corpus Domini. Being deprived at tliis time of his books, his horses, and all that occupied 
him at Venice, I begged him to gratify me by writing something on the subject of Dante; and, with his 
usual facility and rapidity, he composed his Prophecy."] 



DEDICATION. 



Lady ! if for the cold and cloudy clime 

Where I was born, but where I would not die, 

Of the great Poet-sire of Italy 
I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 

Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 

Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 

Spakest ; and for thee to speak and be obeyed 
Are one ; but only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are uttered, and such charms displayed, 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 

Ah I to what effort would it not persuade ? 

Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 



PREFACE. 



In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the authot 
that having composed something on the subject of Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on Dante's 
exile, — the tomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects of interest in that city, both to the native 
and to the stranger. 

" On this hint I spake," and the result has been the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered 
to the reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my purpose to continue the poem in various 
other cantos to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante 
addresses him in the interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly 
before the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopting 
this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by Horace, as 
well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am not 
aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language, except it may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose translation 
I never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes to Caliph Vathek; so that — if I do not err — this poem 
may be considered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are short, and about the same length of those 
of the poet, whose name I have borrowed, and most probably taken in vain. 

Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, 
good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold 
translated into Italian versi sciolti, — that is, a poem written in the Spensereau stanza into blank verse, 
without regard to the natural divisions of the stanza or of the sense. If the present poem, being on a 
national topic, should chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember 
that when I have failed in the imitation of his great " Padre Alighier," I have failed in imitating that 
which all study and few understand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what was the meaning of 
the allegory in the first canto of the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and probable conjecture 
may be considered as having decided the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not quite sure that he would be pleased with my 
success, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are particularly jealous of all that is left them 



192 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



as a nation — their literature; and in the present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, are but ill 
disposed to permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, without finding some fault with his ultra- 
montane presumption. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what would be thought in England of 
an Italian imitator of Milton, or of a translation of Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up to 
the rising generation as a model for their future poetical essays. But I perceive that I am deviating into 
an address to the Italian reader, when my business is with the English one; and be they few or many, 
I must take my leave of both. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



Once more in man's fr^il world ! which I had 
left 
So long that 'twas forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 
Of the immortal vision which could heal 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 
Where late my ears rung with the damned 
cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that 

place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 
Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
Midst whom my* own bright Beatrice 

blessed 1 
My spirit with her light ; and to the base 
Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, 

Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God I 
Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 
Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 

From star to star to reach the almighty 

throne. 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 
So long hath pressed, and the cold marble 
stone. 
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
Love so ineffable, and so alone. 
That nought on earth could more my bosom 
move. 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like the arkless 
dove, 
Had wandered still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found ; without thy 

light 
My paradise had still been incomplete.^ 



1 The reader is requested to adopt the Italian 
pronunciation of Beatrice, sounding all the sylla- 
bles. 

2 "Che sol per le belle opre 

Che fanno in cielo il sole e 1' altre stelle, 
Dentro di lui si crede il Paradiso, 
Cos\ se guardi fiso, 

Pensar ben dei ch' ogni terren piacere 
Si trova dove tu non puoi vedere." 

Canzone, in which Dante [ ?] describes the person 

of Beatrice, Strophe third. 



Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, 
Loved ere I knew the name of love,3 and 
bright 
Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
With the world's war, and years, and banish- 
ment, 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 
For mine is not a nature to be bent 

By tyrannous faction, and the brawling 

crowd, 
And though the long, long conflict hath been 
spent 
In vain, and never more, save when the 
cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's 

eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 
Of me, can I return, though but to die. 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quenched the old exile's spirit, stern and 
high. 
But the sun, though not overcast, must set, 
And the night cometh ; I am old in days. 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 
Destruction face to face in all his ways. 
The world hath left me, what it found me, 

pure. 
And if I have not gathered yet its praise, 
I sought it not by any baser lure ; 

Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my 

name 
May form a monument not all obscure. 
Though such was not my ambition's end or 
aim. 
To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame, 
And make men's fickle breath the wind that 
blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be classed 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes. 
In bloody chronicles of ages past. 

^ [According to Boccaccio, Dante was a lover 
long before he was a soldier, and his passion for the 
Beatrice whom he has immortalized commenced 
while he was in his ninth year, and she in hef 
eighth year. — Cary.\ 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



193 



I would have had my Florence great and 

free : i 
Oh Florence 1 Florence ! unto me thou wast 
Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He, 
Wept over, " but thou wouldst not ; " as the 

bird 
Gathers its young, I would have gathered 
thee 
Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce. 
Against the breast that cherished thee was 
stirred 
Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce. 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas! how bitter is his country's curse 
To him \\\\o for that coan i v would expire, 
But did not merit to expire by her, 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 
The day may come when she will cease to err. 
The day rnay come she would be proud to 

have 
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfers 
Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which 
gave 
Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 
Forsooth is over, and repealed her doom ; 
No, — she denied me what was mine — my 

roof. 
And shall not have what is not hers — my 
tomb. 
Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof 
The breast which would have bled for her, 

the heart 
That beat, the mind that was temptation 
proof. 
The man who fought, toiled, travelled, and each 
part 
Of a true citizen fulfilled, and saw 



^ L' Esilio che m' h dato onor mi tegno. 
****** 
Cader tra' buoni h piir di lode degno." 

Sofinct of D ante, 
in which he represents Right, Generosity, and Tem- 
perance as banished from among men, and seeking 
refuge from Love, who inhabits his bosom. 

* " Ut si qiiis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam 
dicti communis pervenerit, talis perveniens igne' 
coniburatiir, sic quod moriatur.''^ Second sen- 
tence of Florence against Dante, and the fourteen 
accused with him. The Latin is worthy of the sen- 
tence. — [On the 27th of January, 1302, Dante was 
mulcted eight thousand lire, and condemned to two 
years' banishment; and in case the fine was not 
paid, his goods were to be confiscated. On the 
eleventh of March, the same year, he was sentenced 
to a punishment due only to the most desperate of 
malefactors. The decree, that he and his associates 
in exile should be burned if they fell into the hands 
of their enemies, was first discovered in 1772.] 



For his reward the Guelfs ascendant art 
Pass his destruction even into a law. 

These things are not made for forgetfulness, 

Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 
The woimd, too deep the wrong, and the dis- 
tress 

Of such endurance too prolonged to make 

My pardon greater, her injustice less. 
Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 

I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, 

My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 
Vengeance upon thelandwhich once was mine. 

And still is hallowed by thy dust's return. 

Which would protect the murderess like a 
shrine, 
And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 

Though, like old Marius from Minturnae's 
marsh 

And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn 
At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, 

And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 

Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch 
My brow with hopes of triimiph, — let them go ! 

Such are the last infirmities of those 

Who long have suffered more than mortal 
woe, 
And yet being mortal still, have no repose 

But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 

Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking 
glows 
With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change. 

When we shall mount again, and they that 
trod 

Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 

O'er humbled heads and severed necks 

Great God ! 

Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands 
I yield 

My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 
Will fall on those who smote me, — be my 
shield ! 

As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, 

In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 
In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 

For Florence. — I appeal from her to Thee! 

Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 
Even in that glorious vision, which to see 

And live was never granted until now. 

And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 
Alas 1 with what a weight upon my brow 

The sense of earth and earthly things come 
back. 

Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low. 
The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 

Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 

Of half a century bloody and black, 
And the frail few years 1 may yet expect 

Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear. 

For i have been too long and deeply 
wrecked 
On the lone rock of desolate Despair 

To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 



194 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; 
Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my 
wail ? 
I am not of this people, nor this age, 
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 
Which shall preserve these times when not a 
page 
Of their perturbed annals could attract 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 
Did not my verse embalm full many an act 
Worthless as they who wrought it : 'tis the 

doom 
Of spirits of my order to be racked 
In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
Then future thousands crowd around their 
tomb, 
And pilgrims come from climes where they 
have known 
The name of him — who now is but a name. 
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, 
Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — 
fame ; 
And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
Is nothing; but to wither thus — to tame 
My mind down from its own infinity — 
To live in narrow ways with little men, 
A common sight to every common eye, 
A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
Ripped from all kindred, from all home, all 

things 
That make communion sweet, and soften 
pain — 
To feel jue in the solitude of kings 

Without the power that makes them bear a 

crown — 
To envy every dove his nest and wings 
Which waft him where the Apennine looks 
down 
On Arno, till he perches, it may be. 
Within my all inexorable town, 
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,i 



1 This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung 



Their mother, the cold partner who hath 
brought 

Destruction for a dowry 2 — this to see 
And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 

A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 

I have not vilely found, nor basely sought. 
They made an Exile — not a slave of me. 



from one of the most powerful Guelf families, named 
Donati. Corso Donati was the principal adversary 
of the Ghibelines. She is described as being " Ad- 
niodum morosa, nt de Xantippe Socratis phu 
losophiconjugc scriptiim esse legiui its,'" according 
to Giaiinozzo Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is 
scandalized with Boccace, in his life of Dante, for 
saying that literary men should not marry. " Qui 
il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le mogli esser 
contrarie agli studj ; e non si ricorda che Socrate il 
piu nobile filosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e figli- 
uoli e uffici della Repubblica nella sua Cilia; _e 
Aristotele che, etc. etc. ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, 
ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze as sai. — E Marco 
Tullio — e Catone — e Varrone — e Seneca — eb- 
bero moglie," etc. etc. It is odd that honest Lio- 
nardo's examples, with the exception of Seneca, and, 
for any thing I know, of Aristotle, are not the most 
felicitous. Tally's Terentia, and Socrates' Xan- 
tippe, by no means contributed to their husbands' 
happiness, whatever they might as to their philoso- 
phy — Cato gave away his wife — of Varro's we 
know nothing — and of Seneca's, only that she was 
disposed to die with him, but recovered, and lived 
several years afterwards. But, says Lionardo, 
" L' uomo h aiiiinale civile, secondo piace a tutti 
i filosofi." And thence concludes that the greatest 
proof of the ajiimaVs civism is " la prima congi 
unzione, dalla quale multiplicata nasce la Cittk." 

2 [The violence of Gemma's temper proved a 
source of the bitterest suffering to Dante; and in 
that passage of the Inferno, where one of the char- 
acters says — 

" La fiera moglie piu ch' altro, mi nuoce, 

" me, my wife. 

Of savage temper, more than aught beside, 
Hath to this evil brought," 
his own conjugal unhappiness must have recurred 
forcibly and painfully to his mind. — Gary.] 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, 

When words were things that came to pass, 

and thought 
Flashed o'er the future, bidding men behold 
Their children's children's doom already 
brought 
Forth from the abyss of time which is to be. 
The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 
. Shapes that must undergo mortality; 

What the great Seers of Isr.iel wore within, 



That spirit was on them, and is on me, 
And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 

Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed 

This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin 
Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 

The only guerdon I have ever known. 

Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still 
bleed, 
Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 

With dim sepulchral light, bid mz forget 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. • 



195 



In thine irreparable wrongs my own : 
We can have but one country, and even yet 
Thou'rt mine — my bones shall be within 

thy breast, 
My soul within thy language, which once 
set 
With our old Roman sway in the wide West ; 
But I will make another tongue arise 
As lofty and more sweet, in which expressed 
The hero's ardor, or the lover's sighs. 

Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 
That every word, as brilliant as thy skies. 
Shall realize a poet's proudest dream. 

And make theeEurope's nightingale ofsong; 
So that all present speech to thine shall seem 
The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 
Confess its barbarism when compared with 

thine. 
This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so 
wrong. 
Thy Tuscan bard, the banished Ghibeline. 
Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries 
Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 
Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation. 
Float from eternity into these eyes ; 
The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep 
their station. 
The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 
The bloody chaos yet expects creation. 
But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 
The elements await but for the word, 
" Let there be darkness ! " and thou growest 
a tomb. 
Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword. 
Thou, Italy! so fair that Paradise, 
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man re- 
stored : 
Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields. 
Ploughed by the sunbeams solely, would 
suffice 
For the world's granary ; thou, whose sky 
heaven gilds 
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper 

blue; 
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer 
builds 
Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew. 
And formed the Eternal City's ornaments 
From spoils of kings whom freemen over- 
threw ; 
Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints. 
Where earthly first, then heavenly glory 

made 
Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy 
paints, 
And finds her prior vision but portrayed 
In feeble colors, when the eye — from the 

Alp 
Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 
Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 



Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er 

thee. 
And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help; 
To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
The more approached, and dearest were 
they free. 
Thou — Thou must wither to each tyrant's 
will : 
The Goth hath been, — the German, Frank, 

and Hun 
Are yet to come, — and on the imperial hill 
Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new 
Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 
Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue. 
And deepens into red the saffron water 

Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless 

priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daugh- 
ter, 
Vowed to their God, have shrieking fled, ar-d 
ceased 
Their ministry: the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 
And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than 
they , 
Are ; these but gorge the fierh and lap the 

gore 
Of the departed, and then gc their way; 
But those, the human savages, f^xplore 
i All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, 
I With Ugolino hunger prowl for more, 
I Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and 
j set ; 1 

I The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
! Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met, 
\ Hath left its leader's ashes at the ;?ate ; 
I Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
I Thou hadst been spared, but his involved 
I thy fate. 

Oh ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance 
But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 
Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and 

Po, 
Crush them, ye rocks ! floods whelm them, 
and for ever ! 
Why sleep the idle avalanches so, 

To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ? 
Why doth Eridanus but overflow 
The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
Were not each barbarous horde a nobler 

prey ? 
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 

1 See " Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to 
Guicciardini. There is another written by a Jacop« 
Buonaparte. 



196 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway 

Rolled over Pharaoh and his thousands, — 
why, 

Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? 
And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not 
die, 

Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 

Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where 
yet lie 
The dead whose tomb ObHvion never knew, 

Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? 

Their passes more alluring to the view 
Of an invader ? is it they, or ye, 

That to each host the mountain-gate unbar. 

And leave the march in peace, the passage 
free ? 
Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, 

And makes your land impregnable, if earth 

Could be so ; but alone she will not war, 
Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 

In a soil where the mothers bring forth men ; 

Not so with those whose souls are httle 
worth ; 
For them no fortress can avail, — the den 

Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 



Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 
The hearts of those within are quivering. 
Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausoni.,n 

soil 
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and 
hosts to bring 
Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil, 
While still Division sows the seeds of woe 
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the 
spoil. 
Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid 
low, 
So long the grave of thy own children's 

hopes, 
When there is but required a single blow 
To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger 
stops, 
And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine 

and thee. 
And join their strength to that which with 
thee copes ; 
What is there wanting then to set thee free, 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and we, 
Her sons, may do this with one deed — Unite. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



From out the mass of never-dying ill. 

The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and 

the Sword, 
Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 

And flow again, I cannot all record 

That crowds on my prophetic eye : the 

earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 

Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is 

graven, 
There where the furthest suns and stars 
have birth, 

Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven. 
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 

Athwart the sound of archangelic songs. 
And Italy, the martyred nation's gore. 
Will not in vain arise to where belongs 

Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 
Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, 
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 

The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
Earth's dust by immortality refined 

To sense and suffering, though the vain may 
scoff, 
And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 



Before the storm because its breath is 
rough. 
To thee, my country! whom before, as now, 
I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 
And melancholy gift high powers allow 
To read the future ; and if now my fire 
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire; 
Think not that I would look on them and 
live. 
A spirit forces me to see and speak, 
And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 
My heart shall be poured over thee and 
break : 
Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 
Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 
A softer glimpse; some stars shine through 

thy night. 
And many meteors, and above thy tomb 
Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot 
blight ; 
And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 
To give thee honor, and the earth delight ; 
Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, 
The gay, the learned, the generous, and the 

brave, 
Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



197 



Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far 
wave.i 

Discoverers of new worlds, which take their 
name ; 2 

For thee alone they have no arm to save, 
And all thy recompense is in their fame, 

A noble one to them, but not to thee — 

Shall they be glorious, and thou still the 
same ? 
Oh I more than these illustrious far shall be 

The being — and even yet he may be born — 

The mortal savior who shall set thee free, 
And see thy diadem so changed and worn 

By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced ; 

And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, 
Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 

And noxious vapors from Avernus risen, 

Such as all they must breathe who are de- 
based 
By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 

Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe 

Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall 
listen ; 
Poets shall follow in the path I show, 

And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 

Which cheers the birds to song shall bid 
them glow. 
And raise their notes as natural and high ; 

Tuneful shall be their numbers ; they shall 
sing 

Many of love, and some of liberty. 
But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing, 

And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze. 

All free and fearless as the feathered king. 
But fly more near the earth ; how many a phrase 

Sublime shall lavished be on some small 
prince 

In all the prodigality of praise! 
And language, eloquently false, evince 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 

Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 
And looks on prostitution as a duty. 

He who once enters in a tyrant's hall 3 

As guest is slave, his thoughts become a 
booty. 
And the first day which sees the chain enthrall 

A captive, sees his half of manhood gone — ^ 

The soul's emasculation saddens all 
His spirit ; thus the Bard too near the throne 

Quails from his inspiration, bound to 
please, — 

How servile is the task to please alone ! 
To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 

And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 



1 Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene 
of Savoy, Montecucco. 

2 Columbus, Americus Vespucius, Sebastian 
Cabot. 

3 A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which 
Pompey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat 
in which he was slain. 

* The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 



Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 
Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! 
Thus trammelled, thus condemned to Flat- 
tery's trel)les, 
He toils through all, still trembling to be 
wrong : 
For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenl_^ 
rebels. 
Should rise up in high treason to his brain. 
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with peb- 
bles 
In's mouth, lest truth should stammer through 
his strain. 
But out of the long file of sonneteers 
There shall be some who will not sing in 
vain, 
And he, their prince, shall rank among my 
peers,5 
And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 
Shall make an immortality of tears. 
And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 
Of Poet-lovers, and his highest song 
Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 
But in a further age shall rise along 
The banks of Po two greater stih than he ; 
The world which smiled on him shall do 
them wrong 
Till they are ashes, and repose with me. 
The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 
And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 
His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire, 

Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his 

thought 
Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire : 
Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught. 
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme. 
And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 
By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 
He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 
Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his 

high harp 
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood. 
Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 
Their hearts from their great purpose, until 
wave 
The red-cross banners where the first red 

Cross 
Was crimsoned from his veins who died to 
save. 
Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 
Of years, of favor, freedom, even of fame 
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 
Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name. 
And call captivity a kindness, meant 
To shield him from insanity or shame. 
Such shall be his meet guerdon I who was sent 

5 Petrarch. 



198 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



To be Christ's Laureate — they reward him 

well. 
Florence dooms me but death or banishment, 
Ferrara him a pittance and a cell, 

Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 
Had stung the factions which I strove to 
quell ; 
But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 
Will look on earth and heaven, and who 

will deign 
To embalm with his celestial flattery 
As poor a thing as e'er was spawned to reign, 
What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
Perhaps he'll love, — and is not love in vain 
Torture enough without a living tomb ? 
Yet it will be so — he and his compeer. 
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 
In penury and pain too many a year. 
And, dying in despondency, bequeathe 
To the kind world, which scarce will yield 
a tear, 
A heritage enriching all who breathe 

With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, 
And to their country a redoubled wreath. 
Unmatched by time ; not Hellas can unroll 
Through her olympiads two such names, 

though one 
Of hers be mighty; — and is this the whole 
Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 
Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling 

sense. 
The electric blood with which their arteries 
run. 
Their body's self turned soul with the intense 
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recom- 
pense 
Conduct ? shall their bright plumage on the 
rough 



Storm be still scattered ? Yes, and it must be, 
For, formed of far too penetrable stuff, 
These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not 
agree. 
And die or are degraded, for the mind 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair. 
And vulture passions flying close behind, 
Await the moment to assail and tear ; 

And when at length the winged wanderers 

stoop, 
Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they 
share 
The spoil, o'erpowered at length by one fell 
swoop. 
Yet some have been untouched who learned 

to bear, 
Some whom no power could ever force to 
droop. 
Who could resist themselves even, hardest 
care! 
And task most hopeless ; but some such 

have been. 
And if my name amongst the number were, 
That destiny austere, and yet serene, 

Were prouder than more dazzling fame un- 
blessed ; 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is 
seen 
Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest. 
Whose splendor from the black abyss is 

flung. 
While the scorched mountain, from whose 
burning breast 
A temporary torturing flame is wrung, 
Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 
The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Many are poets who have never penned 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would 
not lend 

Their thouglits to meaner beings ; they com- 
pressed 
The God within them, and rejoined the stars 
Unlaurelled upon earth, but far more blessed 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 
Of passion, and their ifrailties linked to fame. 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets but without the name. 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 



At an external life beyond our fate, 

And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too 
late. 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain. 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower. 
Who, having lavished his high gift in vain. 

Lies chained to his lone rock by the seashore ? 
So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power 

Which still recoils from its encumbering clay 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The form which their creations may essay. 

Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



199 



More poesy upon its speaking brow 

Than aught less than the Homeric page 
may bear ; 
One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 

Or deify the canvas till it shine 

With beauty so surpassing all below, 
That they who kneel to idols so divine 

Break no commandment, for high heaven 
is there 

Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 
Of poesy, which peoples but the air 

With thought and beings of our thought re- 
flected, 

Can do no more : then let the artist share 
The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 

Faints o'er the labor unapproved — Alas! 

Despair and Genius are too oft connected. 
Within the ages which before me pass 

Art shall resume and equal even the sway 

Which with Apelles and old Phidias 
She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 

Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive 

The Grecian forms at least from their decay. 
And Roman souls at last again shall live 

In Roman works wrought by Italian hands, 

And temples, loftier than the old temples, 
give 
New wonders to the world ; and while still 
stands 

The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 

A dome,i its image, while the base expands 
Into a fane surpassing all before. 

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er 

Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 
As this, to which all nations shall repair. 

And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. 

And the bold Architect unto whose care 
The daring charge to raise it shall be given. 

Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their 
lord, 

Whether into the marble chaos driven 
His chisel bid the Hebrew ,2 at whose word 

1 The cupola of St. Peter's. 

2 The statue of Moses on the monument of 
Julius II. 

SONETTO. 

Di Giovanni Battista Zappi. 

Chi h. costui, che in dura pietra scolto, 
Siede gigante; e le piii illustre e conte 
Opre deir arte avvanza, e ha vive e pronte 
Le labbra s^, che le parole ascolto? 

Quest' e Mose; ben me '1 diceva il folto 

Onor del mento, e '1 doppio raggio in fronte. 
Quest' k. Mose, quando scendea del montc, 
E gran parte del Nume avea nel vol to. 

Tal era allor, che le sonanti e vaste 
Acque ei sospese a se d' intorno, e tale 
Quando il mar chiuse, e ne le tomba altrui. 

E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzaste? 
Alzata aveste imago a questa eguale ! 
Ch' era men fallo 1' adorar costui. 
" And who is he that, shaped in sculptured stone, 

Sits giant-like? stern monument of art 



Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
Or hues of Hell be by his pencil poured 

Over the damned before the judgment throne,^ 
Such as I saw them, such as all sliall see, 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring 
from me, 4 
The Ghibeline, who traversed the three 

realms 
Which form the empire of eternity. 

Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 
The age which I anticipate, no less 
Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 

Calamity, the nations with distress. 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 

Lovely in all its branches to all eyes. 
Fragrant as fair, and recognized afar. 
Wafting its native incense through the skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of 
war. 
Weaned for an hour from blood, to turn 

and gaze 
On canvas or on stone ; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compelled to praise. 
Shall feel the power of that which they de- 
stroy ; 
And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants who but take her for a toy 

Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud.s who but 
employ 



Unparalleled, while language seems to start 
From his prompt lips, and we his precepts own? 
— 'Tis Moses; by his beard's thick honors known, 

And the twin beams that from his temples dart; 

'Tis Moses; seated on the mount apart, 
Whilst yet the Godhead o'er his features shone. 
Such once he looked, when ocean's sounding wave 

Suspended hung, and such amidst the storm. 

When o'er his foes the refluent waters roared. 
An idol calf his followers did engrave; 

But had they raised this awe-commanding form. 

Then had they with less guilt their work adored." 

Rogers. 

3 The Last Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel. 

* I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I 
cannot recollect wliere), that Dante was sx) great a 
favorite of Michael Angelo's, that he had designed 
the whole of the Divina Commedia; but that the 
volume containing these studies was lost by sea. — 
[" Michael Angelo's copy of Dante," says Duppa, 
"was a large folio, with Landino's commentary; 
and upon the broad margin of the leaves he de- 
signed, with a pen and ink, all the interesting sub- 
jects. This book was possessed by Antonio Mnn- 
tauti, a sculptor and architect of Florence, who, 
being appointed architect to St. Peter's, removed 
to Rome, and shipped his effects at Leghorn for 
Civita Vecchia, among which was this edition of 
Dante: in the voyage the vessel foundered at sea, 
and it was unfortunately lost in the wreck."] 

5 See the treatment of Michael Angelo by Julius 
II., and his neglect by Leo X. — [Julius II. was no 



200 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burden, and to serve a need, 
To sell his labors, and his soul to boot. 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, 
But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no 

more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and 
fee'd, 

Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how 
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine, 
Tread on the universal necks that bow, 

And then assure us that their rights are thine ? 
And how is it that they, the sons of fame, 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, they whom the nations oftest name. 
Must pass their days in penury or pain, 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of 
shame. 

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain? 
Or if their destiny be born aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain. 

In their own souls sustain a harder proof. 
The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? 
Florence ! when thy harsh sentence razed 
my roof, 



sooner seated on the papal throne than he was sur- 
rounded by men of genius, and Michael Angelo was 
amony the first invited to his court. The pope had 
a personal attachment to him, and conversed with 
him upon every subject, as well as sculpture, with 
familiarity and friendship; and, that he might visit 
him frequently, and with perfect convenience, caused 
a covered bridge to be made from the Vatican palace 
to his study, to enable him to pass at all times with- 
out being observed. On paying his visit one morn- 
ing, Michael Angelo was rudely interrupted by the 
person in waiting, who said, " I have an order not 
to let you enter." Michael felt with indignation 
this unmerited disgrace, and, in the warmth of re- 
sentment, desired him to tell the Pope, " from that 
time forward, if his Holiness should want him, he 
should have to seek him in another place." On his 
return home, he ordered his servants to sell the 
furniture in his house to the Jews, and to follow 
him to Florence. Himself, the same evening, took 
post, and arrived at Poggibonzi castle, in Tuscany, 
before he rested. The Pope despatched five couriers 
with orders to conduct him back: but he was not 
overtaken until he was in a foreign state. A recon- 
ciliation was, however, a few months after, effected 
at Bologna, through the mediation of the gonfalo- 
niere. As Michael Angelo entered the presence 
chamber, the Pope gave him an askance look of 
displeasure, and after a short pause saluted him, 
" In the stead of your coming to us, you seem to 
have expected that we should wait upon you." 
Michael Anqelo replied, with submission, that his 
error arose from too hastily feeling a disgrace that 
he was unconscious of meriting, and hoped his 
Holiness would pardon what was past. The Pope 
thereupon gave him his benediction, and restored 
him to his friendship. The whole reign of Leo X. 
was a blank in the life of Michael Angelo. — Duppa.'X 



I loved thee ; but the vengeance of my verse, 
The hate of injuries which every year 
Makes greater and accumulates my curse, 
Shall live, outliving all thou boldest dear, 
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even 

that. 
The most infernal. of all evils here. 
The sway of petty tyrants in a stale ; 
For such sway is not limited to kings, 
And demagogues yield to them but in date 
As swept off sooner; in all deadly things 
Which make men hate themselves, and one 

another, 
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all thai 
springs 
From Death the Sin-bom's incest with hi? 
mother. 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
Thefoction Chief is but the .Sultan's brother 
And the w orst despot's far less human ape : 
Florence ! when this lone spirit, which s( 

long 
Yearned, as the captive toiling at escape, 
To fly back to thee in despite of -wrong, 
An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 
Who has the whole world for a dungeoi 
strong. 
Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge fof 
bars. 
Which shut him from the sole small spot ot 

earth 
Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were 
hers. 
His country's, and might die where he had 
birth — 
Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 
To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, 
And seek to honor with an empty urn 

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain! — Alas! 



1 [In his " Convito," Dante speaks of his banish- 
ment, and the poverty and distress which Mtended 
it, in very affecting terms. About the year 1316, 
his friends obtained his restoration to his country 
and his possessions, on condition that he should 
pay a certain sum of money, and, entering a church, 
there avow himself guilty, and ask pardon of the 
republic. " Far," he replied, " from the man who 
is familiar with philosophy, be the senseless base- 
ness of a heart of earth, that could do like a little 
sciolist, and imitate the infamy of some others, by 
offering himself up as it were in chains. Far from 
the man who cries aloud for justice, this compro- 
mise, by his monev. with his persecutors! No, my 
Father, this is not 'the way that shall lead me back 
to my country. But I shall return with hasty 
steps, if you or any other can open to me a way 
that shall not derogate from the fame and honor of 
Dante; but if by no such w.ay Florence can be en- 
tered, then Florence I shall never enter. What! 
shall I not everywhere enjoy the sight of the sim 
and stars? and may I not seek and contemplate, in 
every corner of the earth tmder the canopy of 
heaven, consoling and delightful truth, without first 
rendering myself inglorious, nay infamous, to the 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 



201 



" What have I done to thee, my people ? i 
Stern 
Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 

The limits of man's common malice, for 

All that a citizen could be I was ; 
Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war, 

And for this thou hast warred with me. — 
'Tis done : 

I may not overleap the eternal bar 
Built up between us, and will die alone, 

Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 

The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. 
Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 



people and republic of Florence? Bread, I hope, 
will not fail me."] 

* " E scrisse piii volte non solamente a particolari 
cittadini del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e 
intra 1' altre una epistola assia lunga che comincia: 
— ' Papule mi, quid feci tibi? ' " 

Vita di Dante scritta da Lionardo Aretino. 



As in the old time, till the hour be come 
When truth shall strike their eyes through 
many a tear, 
And make them own the Prophet in his tomb.2 



2 [Dante died at Ravenna in 1321, in the palace 
of his pation, Guido Novello da Polenta, who testi- 
fied his sorrow and respect by the sumptuousness 
of his obsequies, and by givmg orders to erect a 
monument, which he did not live to complete. His 
countrymen showed, too late, that they knew the 
value ol what they had lost. At the beginning of 
the next century, they entreated that the mortal 
remains of their illustrious citizen might be restored 
to them, and deposited among the tombs of their 
fathers. But the people of Ravenna were unwilling 
to part with the sad and honorable memorial of their 
own hospitality. No better success attended the 
subsequent negotiations of the Florentines for the 
same purpose, though renewed under the auspices 
of Leo X., and conducted through the powerful 
mediation of Michael Angelo.] 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 



[This translation, of what is generally considered the most exquisitely pathetic episode in the Divina 
Commedia, was executed in March, 1820, at Ravenna, where, just five centuries before, and in the very 
house in which the unfortunate lady was born, Dante's poem had been composed. 

In mitigation of the crime of Francesca, Boccaccio relates, that " Guido engaged to give his daughter 
in marriage to Lanciotto, the eldest son of his enemy, the master of Rimini. Lanciotto, who was hide- 
ously deformed in countenance and figure, foresaw that, if he presented himself in person, he should be 
rejected by the lady. He therefore resolved to marry her by proxy, and sent as his representative his 
younger brother, Paolo, the handsomest and most accomplished man in all Italy. Francesca saw Paolo 
arrive, and imagined she beheld her future husband. That mistake was the commencement of her pas- 
sion. The friends of Guido addressed him in strong remonstrances, and mournful predictions of the dan- 
gers to which he exposed a daughter, whose high spirit would never brook to be sacrificed with impunity. 
But Guido was no longer in a condition to make war; and the necessities of the politician overcame the 
feelings of the father." 

In transmitting his version to Mr. Murray, Lord Byron says — " Enclosed you will find, line for line, 
in third rhyme (terza rima), of which your British blackguard reader as yet understands nothing, Fanny 
of Rimini. You know that she was born here, and married, and slain, from Gary, Boyd, and such people. 
I have done it into cramp English, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the possibility. If it is pub- 
lished, publish it zvith the original.'''' 

In one of the poet's MS. Diaries we find the following passage: — "January 29, 1821, past midnight 
— one of the clock. I have been reading Frederick Schlegel ' till now, and I can make out nothing. He 
evidently shows a great power of words, but there is nothing to be taken hold of. He is like Hazlitt in 
English, who talks pimples; a red and white corruption rising up (in liule imitation of mountains upon 
maps), but containing nothing, and discharging nothing, except their own humors. I like him the worse 
(that is, Schlegel), because he always seems upon the verge of meaning; and, lo! he goes down like sun- 
set, or melts like a rainbow, leaving a rather rich confusion. Of Dante, he says, that ' at no time has the 
greatest and most national of all Italian poets ever been much the favorite of his countrymen! ' 'Tis false. 
There have been more editors and commentators (and imitators ultimately) of Dante than of all their 
poets put together. Not a favorite! Why, they talk Dante — write Dante — and think and dieam Dante, 



[" Lectures on the History of Literature, Ancient and Modern."] 



202 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINL 



at this moment (1821), to an excess which would be ridiculous, but that he deserves it. He says also 
that Dante's ' chief defect is a want, in a word, of gentle feelings.' Of gentle feelings! — and Francesca 
of Rimini — and the father's feelings in Ugolino — and Beatrice — and ' La Pia! ' Why, there is a gen- 
tleness in Dante beyond all gentleness, when he is tender. It is true that, treating of the Christian Hades, 
or Hell, there is not much scope or site for gentleness: but who but Dante could have introduced any 
'gentleness' at all into Hell.'' Is there any in Milton's? No — and Dante's Heaven is all love, and glory, 
and majesty."] 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.i 

DANTE L'INFERNO. 

CANTO V, 

SlEDE la terra dove nata fui 

Sulla marina, dove 11 Po discende, 

Per aver pace coi seguaci sui. 
Amor, che aj cor gentii ratio s' apprende, 

Prese costui della bella persona 

Che mi fu tolta ; e il modo ancor m' offende, 
Amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona, 

Mi prese del costui piacer si forte, 

Che, come vedi, ancor non m' abbandona, 
Amor condusse noi ad una morte : 

Caina attende chi in vita ci spense. 

Queste parole da lor ci fur porte. 
Da ch' io intesi quell" anime offense, 

Chinai il viso, e tanto il tenni basso 

Fin che il Poeta mi disse: Che pense ? 
Quando risposi, incomminciai : Ahi lasso! 

Quanti dolci pensier, quanto desio 

Meno costoro al doloroso passo ! 
Poi mi rivolsi a loro, e parlai io, 

E cominciai : Francesca, i tuoi martiri 



* [Francesca, daughter of Guido da Polenta, 
Lord of Ravenna and of Cervia, was given by her 
father in marriage to Lanciotto, son of Malatesta, 
Lord of Rimini, a man of extraordinary courage, 
but deformed in his person. His brother Paolo, who 
unhappily possessed those graces which the hus- 
band of Francesca wanted, engaged her affections; 
and, being taken in adultery, they were both put to 
death by the enraged Lanciotto. The interest of 
this pathetic narrative is much increased, when it 
is recollected that the father of this unfnrtimate 
lady was ihe hcln\rfl frioiid .\\m\ goncioiis protector 
of Dante during; Ins 1 ill<:i days.] 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 

FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. 

CANTO V. 

" The land where I was born 2 sits by the seas, 

Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 

With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 

Seized him for the fair person which was 

ta'en3 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 
Love, who to none beloved to love again 
Remits, seized me with wish to please, so 

strong 
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 
Love to one death conducted us along, 
But Caini* waits for him our life who 

ended: " 
These were the accents uttered by her 
tongue. — 
Since I first listened to these souls offended, 
I bowed my visage, and so kept it till — 
" What think'st thou? " said the bard ; when 
I unbended, 
And recommenced : "Alas! unto such ill 
How many sweet thoughts, what strong 

ecstasies 
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil ! " 
And then I turned unto their side my eyes. 
And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 



2 Ravenna. 

3 [Among Byron's iinpublished letters we find 
the following: — "Varied readings of the transla- 
tion from Dante. 

Seized him for the fair person, which in its 

Bloom was ta'en from me, yet the mode offends. 
or. 

Seized him for the fair form, of which in its 

Bloom I was reft, and yet the mode offends. 
Love, which to none beloved to love remits, 
i with mutual wish to please ) 

Seized me \ with wish of pleasing him J so strong, 
( with the desire to please ) 

That, as thou see'st, not yet that passion quits, etc. 
You will find these readings vary from the MS. I 
sent you. They are closer, but rougher : take which 
is liked best; or, if you like, print them as varia- 
tions. They are all close to the text." — Byron's 
Letters. \ 

* [From Cain, the first fratricide. Caina is that 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 



203 



A lagrimar mi fanno iristo e pio. 

Ma dimnii : al tempo de' dolci sospiii, 
A che e come concedette Amore, 
Che conosceste i dubbiosi desiri ? 

Ed ella a me : Nessun maggior dolore 
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria; i e cio sa il tuo dottore. 

Ma se a conoscer la prima radice 

Del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto, 
Faro come colui che piange e dice. 

Noi leggevamo un giorno per diletto 
Di Lancillotto,"'^ come Amor lo strinse : 
Soli eravamo, e senza alcun sospetto. 

Per piu fiate gli occhi ci sospinse 
Quella lettura, e scolorocci il vise : 
Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse. 

Quando leggemmo il disiato riso 
Esser baciato da cotanto amaiite, 
Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso, 

La bocca mi bacio tutto tremante: 
Galeotto fu il libro, e chi lo scrisse — ■ 
Quel giorno piu non vi leggemmo avante. 

Mentre che I'uno spirto questo disse, 
L'altro piangeva si, che di pictade 
lo venni men, cosi com' io morisse, 

E caddi come corpo morto cade. 



' [" In omni adversitate fortunae infelicissimura 
genus infortunii est fuisse felicem." — Boetius. 
Dante himself tells us, that Boetius and Cicero de 
Amicitia were the two first books that engaged his 
attention.] 

2 [One of the Knights of Arthur's Round Table, 
and the lover of Genevra, celebrated in romance.] 



Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 

By what and how thy love to passion rose, 

So as his dim desires to recognize? " 
Then she to mc : " The greatest of all woes 

Is to remind us of our happy days 3 

In misery, and that thy teacher knows.'* 
But if to learn our passion's first root preys 

Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 

I will do even as he who weeps and says.6 
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh. 

Of Lancelot, how love enchained him too. 

We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 

All o'er discolored by that reading were ; 

But one point only w'holly us o'erthrew;^ 
When we read the long-sighcd-for smile of her, 

To be thus kissed by such devoted lover,'? 

He who from me can be divided ne'er 
Kissed my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 

Accursed was the book and he w ho wrote ! 

That day no further leaf we did uncover." 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 

The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 

I swooned as if by death I had been smote, 
And fell down even as a dead body falls.^ 



part of the Inferno to which murderers are con- 
demned.] 

3 [MS.— 



< [MS.— 
" In misery and 



this 
that 



thy teacher knows."] 



6[MS.— 
" I will I l^ll\^ j as he weeps and says."] 

e[MS.-"ButonepointonIyt.s j ^J^^^^ \ ."] 
7 [MS. — 
" To be thus kissed by such j ^^e^d \ '^^^''''^ 

** [The "other spirit" is Francesca's lover, 
Paolo. It is the poet himself who swoons with 
pity, and his emotion will not be deemed exagger- 
ated when we consider that he had known Fran- 
cesca when a girl, blooming in innocence and 
beauty in the house of his friend, her father.] 



THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE OF PULCI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The Morganle Maggiore, of the first canto of which this translation is offered, divides with the Or- 
lando Innamorato the honor of having formed and suggested the style and story of Ariosto. The great 
defects of Boiardo were his treating too seriously the narratives of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, 
in his continuation, by a judicious mixture of the gaiety of Puici, has avoided the one; and Berni, in his 
reformation of Boiardo's Poem, has corrected the other. Pulci may be considered as the precursor and 
model of Berni altogether, as he has partly been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. He is 
no less the founder of a new style of poetry very lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of the 
ingenious Whistlecraft. The serious poems on Roncesvalles in the same language, and more particu- 
larly the excellent one of Mr. Merivale, are to be traced to the same source. It has never yet been de- 
cided entirely whether Pulci's intention was or was not to deride the religion which is one of his favorite 
topics. It appears to me, that such an intention v/ould have been no less hazardous to the poet than to 
the priest, particularly in that age and country; and the permission to publish the poem, and its recep- 
tion among the classics of Italy, prove that it neither was nor is so interpreted. That he intended to 
ridicule the monastic life, and suffered his imagination to play with the simple dulness of his converted 
giant, seems evident enough; but surely it were as unjust to accuse him of irreligion on this account, as 
to denounce Fielding for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, Thwackum, Supple, and the Ordinary in Jona- 
than Wild, — or Scott, for the exquisite use of his Covenanters in the " Tales of my Landlord." 

In the following translation I have used the liberty of the original with the proper names; as Pulci 
uses Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone; Carlo, Carloniagiio, or Carlomauo; Rondel, or Rondello, etc., as it 
suits his convenience; so has the translator. In other respects the version is faithful to the best of the 
translator's ability in combining his interpretation of the one language with the not very easy task of 
reducing it to the same versification in the other. The reader, on comparing it with the original, is re- 
quested to remember that the antiquated language of Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the generality 
of Italians themselves, from its great mixture of Tuscan proverbs; and he may therefore be more indul- 
gent to the present attempt. How far the translator has succeeded, and whether or no he shall continue 
the work, are questions which the public will decide. He was induced to make the experiment partly by 
his love for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of which it is so easy to acquire a slight 
knowledge, and with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accurately conversant. 
The Italian language is like a capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her favors to few, and 
sometimes least to those who have courted her longest. The translator wished also to present in an Eng- 
lish dress a part at least of a poem never yet rendered into a northern language; at the same time that it 
has been the original of some of the most celebrated productions on this side of the Alps, as well as o< 
those recent experiments in poetry in England which have been already mentioned. 



INTRODUCTION. 



The translation of the Morgante of Pulci was chiefly executed at Ravenna in 1820, and was first pub- 
lished in " The Liberal." Such was the care bestowed by Byron upon the task, that he only accom- 
plished two stanzas a night, which was his principal time for composition, and such was his opinion of 
his success, that he always maintained that there was no such translation in the English language, anc' 



MOR GANTE MA G GIORE. 



205 



never would be such another. He appears to have thought that its merit consisted in the verbum pro 
verba closeness of the version, rendered doubly difficult by the character of the poem, which, besides 
being humorous, is full of vulgar Florentine idioms, abrupt transitions, ungrammatical constructions, and 
sententious obscurity. The immense labor of mastering these accumulated obstacles ' explains Byron's 
over-estimate of the piece. " Why," he wrote to Mr. Murray in 1821, "don't you publish my Pulci — 
the best thing I ever wrote? " 

The first edition of the original Morgante was published at Venice in 1481. The characters are derived 
from some chivalrous romances of the thirteenth century. It is a question whether Pulci designed a bur- 
lesque or a serious poem — Ugo Foscolo maintaining that the air of ridicule arose from the contrast 
between the absurdity of the materials and the effort of the author to render them sublime; while Sis- 
mondi contends that the belief in the marvellous being much diminished, the adventures which formerly 
were heard with gravity could not be reproduced without a mixture of mockery. Hallam agrees with the 
latter, and thinks that Pulci meant to scoff" at heroes whom duller poets held up to admiration. 

There has been an equal difference of opinion upon the parts of the poem which touch on religion. 
Ugo Foscolo considers Pulci a devout Catholic who laughed at particular dogmas and divines; Sismondi 
doubts whether to charge him with gross bigotry or profane derision; and Hallam thinks that under 
pretence of ridiculing the intermixture of theology with romance, he had an intention of exposing religion 
to contempt. Whatever may have been his theoretical creed, he shows by his mode of treating sacred 
topics thai he was entirely destitute of reverence. Byron was asked to allow some suppressions in his 
translation, to which he replied that Pulci must answer for his own impiety. 



[These difficulties are much exaggerated. — F. J. C] 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 

CANTO PR I MO. 

I. 

In principio era il Verbo appresso a Dio, 
Ed era Iddio 11 Verbo, e'l Verbo lui : 
Questo era nel principio, al parer mio ; 
P2 nulla si pud far sanza costui : 
Fero, giusto Signer benigno e pio, 
Mandami solo un de gli angeli tui, 
Che m'accompagni, e rechimi a memoria 
Una famosa antica e degna storia. 



E tu Vergine, figlia, e madre, e sposa 
Di quel Signer, che ti dette le chiave 
Del cielo e dell' abisso, e d'ogni cosa, 
Quel di che Gabriel tuo ti disse Ave ! 
Perche tu se' de' tuo' servi pietosa, 
Con dolce rime, e stil grato e soave, 
Ajuta i versi miei benignamente, 
E'nfino al fine allumina la mente. 



Era nel tempo, quando Filomena 
Con la sorella si lamenta e plora, 



THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 

CANTO THE FIRST. 

I. 
In the beginning was the Word next God ; 
God was the Word, the Word no less was 
he: 
This was in the beginning, to my mode 
Of thinking, and without him nought could 
be : 
Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode, 

Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
One only, to be my companion, who 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song 
through. 

II. 
And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride, 
Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 
Of heaven, and hell, and everv thing beside. 

The day thy Gabriel said "All haiU " to thee. 
Since to thy servants pity's ne'er denied, 
With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and 
free, 
Be to my verses then benignly kind, 
And to the end illuminate my mind. 



"Twas in the season when sad Philomel 
Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 



206 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Che si ricorda di sua antica pena, 
E pe' boschetti le ninfe innamora, 
E Febo il carro temperate mena, 
Che '1 suo Fetonte I'ammaestra ancora; 
Ed appariva appunto aH'orizzonte, 
Tal che Titon si graffiava la fronte. 



IV. 

Quand'io varai la mia barchetta, prima 
Per ubbidir chi sempre ubbidir debbe 
La mente, e faticarsi in prosa e in rima, 
E del mio Carlo Imperador m'increbbe; 
Che so quand la penna ha posto in cima, 
Che tutti la sua gloria prevarrebbe : 
E stata quella istoria, a quel ch' i' veggio, 
Di Carlo male intesa, e scritta peggio. 



Diceva gii Lionardo Aretino, 

Che s' egli avesse avuto scrittor degno, 
Com'egli ebbe un Ormanno il suo Pipino, 
Ch'avesse diligenzia avuto e ingegno ; 
Sarebbe Carlo Magno un uom divino ; 
Pero ch'egli ebbe gran vittorie e regno, 
E fece per la chiesa e per la fede 
Certo assai piu, che non si dice o crede. 



VI. 

Guardisi ancora a san Liberatore 
Quella badia la presso a Manoppello, 
Giu ne g!i Abbruzzi fatta per suo onore, 
Dove fu la battaglia e "1 gran flaggello 
D'un re pagan, che Carlo imperadore 
Uccise, e tanto del suo popol fello : 
E vedesi tante ossa, e tanto il sanno, 
Che tutte in Giusafk poi si vedranno. 



VII. 

Ma il mondo cieco e ignorante non prezza 
Le sue virtu, com'io vorrei vedere : 
E tu, Fiorenza, de la sua grandezza 
Possiedi, e sempre potrai possedere 
Ogni costume ed ogni gentilezza 
Che si potesse acquistare o avere 
Col senno col tesoro o con la lancia 
Dal nobil sangue e venuto di Francia. 



Dodici paladini aveva in corte 

Carlo ; e'l piii savio e famoso era Orlando; 
Gan traditor lo condusse a la morte, 
In Roncisvalle, un trattato ordinando; 
La dove il corno sono tanto forte 
I>opo la dolorosa rotta, quando 



Deplores the ancient woes which both befell, 
And makes the nymphs enamoured, to the 
hand 
Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 
- His car (but tempered by his sire's com- 
mand) 
Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 
Appeared, so that Tithonus scratched his 
brow : 

IV. 

When I prepared my bark first to obey. 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind, 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you wilffind 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his glory were inclined. 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have understood Charles badly, and wrote 
worse. 

V. 

Leonardo Aretino said already, 

That if like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady. 

No hero would in history look brighter; 
He in the cabinet being always ready, 

And in the field a most victorious fighter, 
Who for the church and Christian faith had 

wrought, 
Certes, far more than yet is said or thought. 



You still may see at Saint Liberatore 

The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 

Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory, 

Because of the great battle in w hich fell 

A pagan king, according to the story, 

And felon people whom Charles sent to hell : 

And there are bones so many, and so many, 

Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if any. 

VII. 

But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 
His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 

Florence, by his great bounty don't arise. 
And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow. 

All proper customs and true courtesies : 
Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till 
now. 

With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance. 

Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 

VIII. 

Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom 
The wisest and most famous was Orlando; 
Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 

In Roncesvalles, as the villain planned too, 
While the horn rang so loud, and knelled the 
doom 
Of their sad rout, though he did all knight 
can do ; 



MORGANTE MA GG 10 RE. 



207 



Ne la sua commedia Dante qui dice, 
E inettelo con Carlo in ciel felice. 



IX. 

Era per Pasqua quella di natale : 
Carlo la corte avea tutta in Parigi : 
Orlando, com'io dico, il principale 
Evvi, il Dancse, Astolfo, e Ansuigi : 
Fannosi feste e cose trionfale, 
E molto celebravan San Dionigi; 
Angiolin di Bajona, ed Ulivieri 
Vera venuto, e'l gentil Berlinghieri : 



X. 

Eravi Avolio ed Avino ed Ottone, 
Di Normandia, Riccardo Paladino, 
E'l savio Namo, e'l vecchio Salamone, 
Gualtier da Monlione, e Baldovino 
Ch'era figliuol del tristo Ganellone, 
Troppo lieto era il figliuol di Pipino; 
Tanto che spesso d'allegrezza geme 
Veggendo tutti i paladini insieme. 



XI. 

Ma la fortuna attenta sta nascosa. 

Per guastar senipre ciascun nostro effetto ; 
Mentre che Carlo cosi si riposa, 
Orlando governava in tatto e in detto 
La corte e Carlo Magno ed ogni cosa : 
Gan per invidia scoppia il maiadetto, 
E cominciava un di con Carlo a dire : 
Abbiam noi sempre Orlando ad ubbidire ? 

XII. 

lo ho creduto mille volte dirti : 

Orlando ha in se troppa presunzione : 
Noi siam qui conti, re, duchi a servirti, 
E Namo, Ottone, Uggieri e Salamone, 
Per onorarti ognun, per ubbidirti : 
Che costui abbi ogni reputazione 
Noi sofferrem ; ma siam deliberati 
Da un fanciullo non esser governati. 

XIII. 

Tu cominciasti insino in Aspramonte 
A dargli a intender che fusse gagliardo, 
E facesse gran cose a quella fonte ; 
Ma se non fusse stato il buon Gherardo, 
lo so che la vittoria era d'Almonte : 
Ma egli ebbe senipre I'occhio a lo stendardo. 
Che si voleva quel di coronarlo : 
Questo b colui ch'ha meritato. Carlo. 

XIV. 

Se ti ricorda gia sendo in Guascogna, 
Quando e'vi venne la gente (li Spagna, 



And Dante in his comedy has given 

To hun a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 

IX. 

'Twas Christmas-day; in Paris all his court 
Charles held; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 

The Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort, 
Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 

In festival and in triumphal sport. 
The much-renowned St. Dennis being the 
cause ; 

Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 

And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 



Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 

Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 

Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salemone, 
Walter of Lion's Mount and Baidovin, 

Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 
Were there, exciting too much gladness in 

The son of Pepin : — when his knights came 
hither, 

He groaned with joy to see them altogether. 

XI. 
But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 
Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. , 
While Charles reposed him thus, in word and 
deed, 
Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every 
thing; 
Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 
To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the 
king 
One day he openly began to say, 
" Orlando must we always then obey ? 

XII. 
" A thousand times I've been about to say, 

Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 
Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy 
sway, 

Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
Each have to honor thee and to obey; 

But he has too much credit near the throne. 
Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 
By such a boy to be no longer guided. 

XIII. 

" And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
To let him know he was a gallant knight, 

And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
But I know who thK day had won the fight 

If it had not for good Gherardo been : 
The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 

He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 

In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 



If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 
When there advanced the nations out of 
Spain, 



208 



MO RG ANTE MAGGIORE. 



II popol de' cristiani avea vergogna, 
Se non mostrava la sua forza magna. 
II ver convien pur dir, quando e'bisogna : 
Sappi ch'ognuno impeiador si lagna : 
Quant'io per me, ripassero que' monti 
Ch'io passai 'n qua con sessantaduo conti. 



XV. 

La tua grandezza dispensar si vuole, 
E far che ciascun abbi la sua parte : 
La corte tutta quanta se ne duole : 
Tu credi che cestui sia forse Marte ? 
Orlando un giorno udi queste parole, 
Che si sedeva soletto in disparte : 
Dispiacquegli di Gan quel che diceva; 
Ma molto piu che Carlo gli credeva. 



XVI. 

E voile con la spada uccider Gano ; 
Ma Ulivieri in quel mezzo si mise, 
E Durlirdana gli trasse di mano, 
E cosi il me' che seppe gli divise. 
Orlando si sdegno con Carlo Mano, 
E poco men che quivi non I'uccise ; 
E dipartissi di Parigi solo, 
E scoppia e'mpazza di sdegno e di duolo. 



XVII. 

Ad Ermellina moglie del Danese 
Tolse Cortana, e poi tolse Rondello; 
E 'n verso Brara il suo cammin poi prese. 
Alda la bella, come vide quello. 
Per abbracciarlo le braccia distese. 
Orlando, che ismarrito avea il cervello, 
Com'ella disse : ben venga il mio Orlando : 
Gli voile in su la testa dar col brando. 



XVIII. 

Come colui che la furia consiglia, 
Egli pareva a Gan dar veramente ; 
Alda la bella si fe' maravigiia : 
Orlando si ravvide prestamente : 
E la sua sposa pigliava la briglia, 
E scese dal caval subitamente : 
Ed ogni cosa narrava a costei, 
E riposossi alcun giorno con lei. 



XIX. 

Poi si parti portato dal furore, 
E termino passare in Pagania ; 
E mentre che cavalca, il traditore 
Di Gan sempre ricorda per la via : 
E cavalcando d'uno in altro errore, 
In un deserto truova una badia 



The Christian cause had suffered shamefully, 
Had not his valor driven them back again. 

Best speak the truth when there's a reason why : 
Know then, oh emperor ! that all complain : 

As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 

O'er which I crossed with two and sixty counts. 

XV. 

"'Tis fit thy grandeur should dispense relief. 
So that each here may have his proper part, 

For the whole court is more or less in grief: 
Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in 
heart ? " 

Orlando one day heard this speech in brief. 
As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 

Displeased he was with Gan because he said it. 

But much more still that Charles should give 
him credit. 

XVI. 

And with the sword he would have murdered 
Gan, 
But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 
And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 

And thus at length they separated were, 
Orlando angry too with Carloman, 

Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 
Then forth alone from Paris went the chief. 
And burst and maddened with disdain and 
grief. 

XVII. 

From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 

And on towards Brara pricked him o'er the 
plain ; 
And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 

Stretched forth her arms to clasp her lord 
again : 
Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, 

As " Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said. 

Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 

XVIII. 

Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 

On Gan in that rash act he seemed to take, 

Which Aldabella thought extremely sflange; 
3ut soon Orlando found himself awake; 

And his spouse took his bridle on this cliange, 
And he dismounted from his horse, and 
spake 

Of every thing which passed without demur. 

And then reposed himself some days with her. 

XIX. 

Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
And far as pagan countries roamed astray, 

And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remembered by the way; 

And wandering on in error a long space, 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



209 



In liioghi oscuri e paesi lontani, 
Ch'era a' confin' tra christian! e pagani. 



XX. 

L'abate si chiamava Chiaramonte, 
Era del sangue disceso d'Anglante : 
Di sopra a la badia v'cra un gran monte, 
Dove abitava alcun fiero gigante, 
De'quali uno avea noma Passamonte, 
L'altro Alabastro, e'l terzo era Morgante ; 
Con certe fronibe gittavan da alto, 
Ed ogni di facevan qualche assalto. 



I monachetti non potieno uscire 

Del monistero o per legne o per acque 
Orlando picchia, e non volieno aprire, 
Fin che a I'abate a la fine pur piacqiie ; 
Entrato drento cominciava a dire, 
Come colui che di Maria gii nacque, 
Adora, ed era cristian battezzato, 
E com' egli era a la badia arrivato. 



Disse I'abate : il ben venuto sia 
Di quel ch'io ho volentier ti daremo, 
Poi che tu credi al figliuol di Maria ; 
E la cagion, cavalier, ti diremo, 
Accio che non I'imputi a villania, 
Perch^ a I'entrar resistenza facemo, 
E non ti voile aprir quel monachetto ; 
Cosi intervien chi vive con sospetto. 



XXIII. 

Quando ci venni al principio abitare 
Queste montagne, bench^ sieno oscure 
Come tu vedi ; pur si potea stare 
Sanza sospetto, ch" ell' eran sicure : 
Sol da le fiere t'avevi a guardare ; 
Fernoci spesso di brutte paure ; 
Or ci bisogna, se vogliamo starci, 
Da le bestie dimestiche guardarci. 



Queste ci fan piuttosto stare a segno : 
Sonci appariti tre fieri giganti, 
Non so di qual paese o di qual regno. 
Ma niolto son feroci tutti quanti : 
La forza e '1 malvoler giunt' a lo' ngegno 
Sai che puo 'I tutto ; e noi non siam bas- 
tanti • 



'Midst glens obscure, and distant lands, he 

found, 
Which formed the Christian's and the pagan's 

bound. 

XX. 

The abbot was called Clermont, and by blood 
Descended from Angrante : under cover 

Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood. 
But certain savage giants looked him over; 

One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 
And Alabaster and Morgante hover 

Second end third, with certain slings, and 
throw 

In daily jeopard) the place below. 

XXI. 

The monics could pass the convent gate no 
more, 

Nor leave their cells for water or for wood ; 
Orlando knocked, but none would ope, before 

Unto the prior it at length seemed good ; 
Entered, he said that he was taught to adore 

Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood, 
And was baptized a Christian ; and then 

showed 
How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 

Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is 
mine 

We give you freely, since that you believe 
With us in Mary Mother's Son divine ; 

And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 
The cause of our delay to let you in 

To be rusticity, you shall receive 
The reason why our gate was barred to you : 
Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 

XXIII. 

" When hither to inhabit first we came 
These mountains, albeit that they are ob- 
scure, 

As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
They seemed to promise an asylum sure : 

From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
'Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 

But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must 
guard 

Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 

XXIV. 

"These make us stand, in fact, upon the 
watch ; 
For late there have appeared three giants 
rough ; 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 
I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 
When force and malice with some genius 
match, 
You know, they can do all — we are not 
I enough : 



210 



MORGANTE MAG 01 ORE. 



Questi perturban si I'orazion nostra, 
Che non so piu che far, s'altri nol mostra. 



XXV, 

Gli antichi padri nostri nel deserto, 
Se le lor opre sante erano e giuste, 
Del ben servir da Dio n'avean buon merto ; 
N6 creder sol vivessin di locuste : 
Piovea dal ciel la manna, questo b certo ; 
Ma qui convien che spesso assaggi e guste 
Sassi che piovon di sopra quel monte, 
Che gettano Alabastro e Passamonte. 



XXVI. 

E '1 terzo che Morgante, assai piu fiero, 
Isveglie e pini e faggi e cerri e gli oppi, 
E gettagli infin qui : questo 6 pur vero ; 
Non posso far che, d'ira non iscoppi. 
Mentre che parlan cosi in cimitero, 
Un sasso par che Rondel quasi sgroppi ; 
Che da' giganti giu venne da alto 
Tanto, ch'e' prese sotto il tetto un salto. 



XXVII. 

Tirati drento, cavalier, per Dio, 
Disse I'abate, che la manna casca. 
Risponde Orlando : caro abate mio, 
Costui non vuol che'l mio caval piu pasca; 
Veggo che lo guarrebbe del restio : 
Quel sasso par che di buon braccio nasca. 
Rispose il santo padre : io non t'inganno. 
Credo che'l monte un giorno gitteranno. 



XXVIII. 

Orlando governar fece Rondello, 
E ordinar per se da colazione : 
Poi disse : abate, io voglio andare a quello 
Che dette al mio caval con quel cantone. 
Disse I'abate : come car fratello 
Consiglierotti sanza passione : 
Io ti sconforto, baron, di tal gita; 
Ch'io so che tu vi lascerai la vita. 



Quel Passamonte porta in man tre dardi : 
Chi frombe, chi baston, chi mazzafrusti ; 
Sai che giganti piu di noi gagliardi 
Son per ragion, che son anco piu giusti ; 
E pur se vuoi andar fa che ti guardi, 
Che questi son villan molto e robusti. 



And these so much our orisons derange, 
I know not what to do, till matters change. 

XXV. 
" Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 
For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis 
certain 
That manna was rained down from heaven 
instead : 
But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in 
Our bounds, or taste the stones showered 
down for bread. 
From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 
And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 

XXVI. 

" The third, Morgante's savagest by far ; he 
Plucks up pines^ beeches, poplar-trees, and 
oaks, 

And flings them, our community to bury; 
And all that I can do but more provokes," 

While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 

Which nearly crushed Rondell, came tum- 
bling over. 

So that he took a long leap under cover. 

XXVII. 
" For God-sake, cavalier, come in with speed ; 
The manna's falling now," the abbot cried. 
" This fellow does not wish my horse should 
feed. 
Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 
" Of restiveness he'd cure him had he need ; 
That stone seems with good will and aim 
applied." 
The holy father said, " I don't deceive ; , 
They'll one day fling the mountain, I beheve." 

XXVIII. 
Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 

And also made a breakfast of his own : 
" Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 
Who flung at my good horse yon corner- 
stone." 
Said the abbot, " Let not my advice seem 
shallow ; 
As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 
I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 
As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

"That Passamont has in his hand three 
darts — 
Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield 
you must ; 
You know that giants have much stouter 
hearts 
Than us, with reason, in proportion just: 
If go you will, guard well against their arts. 
For these are very barbarous and robust.'' 



MOR CANTE MA G GIORE. 



211 



Rispose Orlando : io lo vedro per certo ; 
Ed avviossi a pi6 su pel deserto. 



Disse I'abate col segnarlo in fronte : 
Va, che da Dio e me sia benedetto, 
Orlando, poi che salito ebbe il monte, 
Si dirizzo, come I'abate detto 
Gli avea, dove sta quel Passamonte ; 
II quale Orlando veggendo soletto, 
Molto lo squadra di drieto e davante ; 
Poi domando, se star volea per fante. 



XXXI. 

E' prometteva di farlo godere. 
Orlando disse : pazzo saracino. 
Io vengo a te, com'e di Dio volere, 
Per darti morte, e non per ragazzino ; 
A'monaci suoi fatto hai dispiacere ; 
Non puo pill comportarti, can mastino. 
Questo gigante armar si corse a furia, 
Quando senti ch'e'gli diceva ingiuria. 



XXXII. 

E ritornato ove aspettava Orlando, 
II qual non s'era partito da bomba; 
Subito venne la corda girando, 
E lascia un sasso andar fuor de la fromba, 
Che in su la testa giugnea rotolando 
Al conte Orlando, e I'elmetto rimbomba; 
E' caddie per la pena tramortito ; 
Ma piu che morto par, tanto e stordito. 



Passamonte penso che fusse morto, 

E disse : io voglio andarmi a disarmare : 
Questo poltron per chi m'aveva scorto ? 
Ma Cristo i suoi non suole abbandonare, 
Massime Orlando, ch'egli arebbe il torto, 
Mentre il gigante I'arme va a spogliare, 
Orlando in questo tempo si risente, 
E rivocava e la forza e la mente. 



E grido forte : gigante, ove vai ? 

Ben ti pensasti d'avermi aminazzato! 
Volgiti a drieto, che, sale non hai, 
Non puoi da me fuggir, can rinnegato: 
A tradimento ingiuriato m'hai. 
Donde il gigante allor maravigliato 
Si volse a drieto, e riteneva il passo ; 
Poi si chino per tor di terra un sasso. 



Orlando answered, "This I'll see, be sure, 
And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot signed the great cross on his front, 
" Then go you with God's benison and 
mine : " 
Orlando, after he had scaled the mount, 

As the abbot had directed, kept the line 
Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design. 
Surveyed him fore and aft with eyes observant. 
Then asked him, " If he wished to stay as ser- 
vant ? " 

XXXI. 

And promised him an office of great ease. 

But, said Orlando, "Saracen insane! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as footboy in your train ; 
You with his monks so oft have broke the 
peace — 

Vile dog ! 'tis past his patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, 
When he received an answer so injurious. 

XXXII. 

And being returned to where Orlando stood. 
Who had not moved him from the spot, and 
swinging 
The cord, he hurled a stone with strength so 
rude. 
As showed a sample of his skill in slinging ; 
It rolled on Count Orlando's helmet good 
And head, and set both head and helmet 
ringing. 
So that he swooned with pain as if he died, 
But more than dead, he seemed so stupefied. 

XXXIII. 

Then Passamontj who thought him slain out- 
right. 

Said, " I will go, and while he lies along. 
Disarm me: why such craven did I fight?" 

But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long. 
Especially Orlando, such a knight. 

As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
Orlando has recalled his force and senses : 

XXXIV. 

And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 

Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier 
outlaid; 
To the right about — without wings thou'rt 
too slow 

To fly my vengeance — currish renegade! 
'Twas but by treachery thou laid'st me low." 

The giant his astonishment betrayed. 
And turned about, and stopped his journey on, 
And then he stooped to pick up a great stone. 



212 



MO RG ANTE MAG G I ORE. 



XXXV. 

Orlando avea Cortana ignuda in mano ; 
Trasse a la testa: e Cortana tagliava: 
Per mezzo il teschio parti del pagano, 
E Passamonte morto rovinava : 
E nel cadere il superbo e villano 
Divotamente Macon bestemmiava; 
Ma mentre che bestemmia il crudo e acerbo, 
Orlando ringraziava il Padre e'l Verbo. 



XXXVI. 

Dicendo: quanta grazia oggi m' ha' data! 
Sempre ti sono, o signor mio, tenuto ; 
Per te conosco la vita salvata ; 
Pero che dal gigante era abbattuto : 
Ogni cosa a ragion fai misurata; 
Non val nostro poter sanza il tuo ajuto. 
Priegoti, sopra me tenga la mano, 
Tanto che ancor ritorni a Carlo Mano. 



Poi ch'ebbe questo detto sen' andoe, 
Tanto che trouva Alabastro piu basso 
Che si sforzava, quando e'lo trovoe, 
Di sveglier d'una ripa fuori un masso. 
Orlando, com'e' giunse a quel, gridoe: 
Che pensi tu, ghiotton, gittar quel sasso ? 
Quando Alabastro questo grido intende, 
Subitamente la sua fromba prende. 



XXXVIII. 

E trasse d'una pietra molto grossa, 
Tanto ch'Orlando bisogno schermisse ; 
Che se I'avesse giunto la percossa, 
Non bisognava il medico venisse. 
Orlando adopero poi la sua possa ; 
Nel pettignon tutta la spada misse : 
E morto cadde questo badalone, 
E non dimentico perb Macone. 



XXXIX. 

Morgante aveva al suo modo un palagio 
Fatto di frasche e di schegge e di terra : 
Quivi, secondo lui, si posa ad agio; 
Quivi la notte si rinchiude e serra. 
Orlando picchia, e daragli disagio, 
Perch6 il gigante dal sonno si sferra; 
Vennegli aprir come una cosa matta; 
Ch'un' aspra visione aveva fatta. 



XXXV. 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand ; 

To split the head in twain was what he 
schemed : — 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeemed, 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he banned. 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed : 
But while his crude, rude blasphemies he 

heard, 
Orlando thanked the Father and the Word, — 



Saying, " What grace to me thou'st this day 
given ! 

And I to thee, oh Lord ! am ever bound, 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven. 

Since by the giant I was fairly downed. 
All things by thee are measured just and even ; 

Our power without thine aid would nought 
be found : 
I pray thee take heed of me, till I can 
At least return once more to Carloman." 

XXXVII. 

And having said thus much, he went his way ; 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reached him, loud 'gan say, 

" How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone 
to throw ? " 
When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring. 
He suddenly betook him to his shng, 

XXXVIII. 

And hurled a fragment of a size so large, 
That if it had in fact fulfilled its mission. 

And Roland not availed him of his targe. 
There would have been no need of a 
physician. 

Orlando set himself in turn to charge. 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The lout fell ; but o'er- 
thrown, he 

However by no means forgot Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode. 

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and 
earth. 
And stretched himself at ease in this abode, 

And shut himself at night within his berth. 
Orlando knocked, and knocked again, to goad 
The giant from his sleep; and he came 
forth. 
The door to open, like a crazy thing. 
For a rough dream had shook him slumber- 
ing. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



213 



XL. 

E' gli parea ch'un feroce serpente 

L'avea assalito, e chiamar Macometto ; 

Ma Macometto non valea niente : 

Ond'e" chiamava Gesii bcnedetto ; 

E liberate ravea.finalmente. 

Venne alia porta, ed ebbe cosi detto ; 

Chi buzza qua ? pur sempre borbottando. 

Tu '1 saprai tosto, gli rispose Orlando. 



XLI. 

Vengo per farti, come a' tuo' fratelli, 
Far de' peccati tuoi la penitenzia, 
Da' monaci mandate, cattivelli, 
Come stato 6 divina providenzia ; 
Pel mal ch'avete fatto a torto a quelli, 
!]fc dato in ciel cosi questa sentenzia; 
Sappi, che freddo g\k piu ch'un pilastro 
Lasciato ho Passamonte e'l tuo Alabastro. 



XLII. 

Disse Morgante : o gentil cavaliere, 
Per lo tuo Dio non midir villania : 
Di grazia il nome tuo vorrei sapere ; 
Se se" Cristian, deh dillo in cortesia. 
Rispose Orlando : di cotal mestiere 
Contenterotti per la fede mia : 
Adoro Cristo, ch'^ Signor verace : 
Epuoi tu adorarlo, se ti place. 



XLIII, 

Rispose il saracin con umil voce : 
lo ho fatto una strana visione, 
Che m'assaliva un serpente feroce : 
Non mi valeva per chiamar Macone ; 
Onde al tuo Dio che fu confitto in croce 
Rivoisi presto la mia intenzione : 
E' mi soccorse, e fui libero e sano, 
E son disposto al tutto esser Cristiano. 



XLIV. 

Rispose Orlando : baron giusto e pio, 
Se questo buon voler terrai nel core, 
L'anima tua ara quel vero Dio 
Che ci pud sol gradir d'eterno onore : 
E s'tu vorrai, sarai compagno mio, 
E amerotti con perfetto amore : 
Gl'idoli vostri son bugiardi e vani : 
II vero Dio e lo Dio de' Cristiani, 



Venne questo Signor sanza peccato 
Ne la sua madre vergine pulzella: 
Se conoscessi quel Signor beato, 



He thought that a fierce serpent had attacked 
him ; 
And Mahomet he called ; but Mahomet 
Is nothing worth, and not an instant backed 
him; 
But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
At liberty from all the fears which racked him ; 
And to the gate he came with great re- 
gret— 
" Who knocks here ? " grumbling all the while, 

said he. 
"That," said Orlando, "you will quickly see. 

XLI. 

" I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
Sent by the miserable monks — repent- 
ance; 
For Providence divine, in you and others. 
Condemns the evil done my new acquaint- 
ance. 
'Tis writ on high — your wrong must pay an- 
other's ; 
From heaven itself is issued out this sen- 
tence. 
Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 

XLTI. 
Morgante said, " Oh gentle cavalier! 

Now by thy God say me no villany ; 
The favor of your name I fain would hear, 

And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear 

I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored." 

XLIII, 
The Saracen rejoined in humble tone, 

" I have had an extraordinary vision ; 
A savage serpent fell on me alone. 

And Macon would not pity my condition ; 
Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 

Upon the cross, preferred I my petition ; 
His timely succor set me sate and free. 
And I a Christian am disposed to be." 

XLIV. 
Orlando answered, " Baron just and pious, 

If this good wish your heart can really move 
To the true God, who will not then deny us 

Eternal honor, you will go above, 
And, if you please, as friends we will ally us. 

And I will love you with a perfect love'. 
Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud : 
The only true God is the Christian's God, 

XLV. 

" The Lord descended to the virgin breast 

Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 
If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest, 



5.14 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Sanza'l qiial non risplende sole o Stella, 
Aresti giA Macon tuo rinnegato, 
E la sua fede iniqua ingiusta e fella : 
Battezzati al mio Dio di buon talento. 
Morgante gli rispose : io son contento. 



XLVI. 

E corse Orlando subito abbracciare : 
Orlando gran carezze gli facea, 
E disse : a la badia ti vo' menare. 
Morgante, andianci presto, respondea; 
Co' monaci la pace ci vuol fare. 
De la qual cosa Orlando in se godea, 
Dicendo ; fratel mio divoto e buono, 
Io v6 che chiegga a 1" abate perdono, 



Da poi che Dio ralluminato t'ha, 
Ed acettato per la sua umiltade ; 
Vuolsi che tu ancor usi umilta. 
Disse Morgante : per la tua bontade, 
Poi che il tuo Dio mio sempre omai sarA, 
Dimmio del nome tuo la veritade, 
Poi di me dispor puoi al tuo coniando ; 
Ond' e' gli disse, com 'egli era Orlando. 



Disse il gigante : Gesu benedetto 
Per mille volte ringraziato sia; 
Sentito t'ho no mar, baron perfetto, 
Per tutti i tempi de la vita mia : 
E, com'io dissi, sempremai suggetto 
Esser ti vo' per la tua gagliardia. 
Insieme molte cose ragionaro, 
E'n verso la badia poi s'inviaro. 



XLIX. 

E per la via da que' giganti morti 
Orlando con Morgante si ragiona : 
De la lor morte vo' che ti conforti ; 
E poi che place a Dio, a me perdona ; 
A' monaci avean fatto mille torti ; 
E la nostra scrittura aperto suona : 
11 ben remunerato, e'l mal punito ; 
E mai non ha questo Signor fallito : 



Pero ch'egli ama la giustizia tanto, 
Che vuol, che sempre il suo giudicio morda 
Ognun ch'abbi peccato tanto o quanto ; 
E cosi il ben ristorar si ricorda : 
E non saria senza giustizia santo : 
Adunque al suo voler presto t'accorda : 
Che debbe ognun voler quel che vuol questo, 
Ed accordarsi volentieri e presto. 



Without whom neither sun nor star can 
shine. 
Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test. 

Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 
Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent," 
To which Morgante answesed, " I'm content." 

XLVI. 

And then Orlando to embrace him flew. 
And made much of his convert, as he cried, 

" To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 
To whom Morgante, " Let us go," replied ; 

" I to the friars have for peace to sue." 

Which thing Orlando heard with inward 
pride. 

Saying, " My brother, so devout and good, 

Ask the abbot pardon, as I wish you would : 

XLVII. 

" Since God has granted your illumination, 
Accepting you in mercy for his own. 

Humility should be your first oblation." 
Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, make 
known — 

Since that your God is to be mine — your sta- 
tion. 
And let your name in verity be shown ; 

Then will I every thing at your command do." 

On which the other said, he was Orlando. 

XLVIII. 

"Then," quoth the giant, "blessed be Jesu 
A thousand times with gratitude and praise! 

Oft, perfect baron ! have I heard of you 
Through all the different periods of my days : 

And, as I said, to be your vassal too 
I wish, for your great gallantry always." 

Thus reasoning, they continued much to say, 

And onwards to the abbey went their way. 



And by the way about the giants dead 
Orlando with Morgante reasoned : " Be, 

For their decease, I pray you, comforted ; 
And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me, 

A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred. 
And our true Scripture soundeth openly. 

Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill. 

Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 



" Because his love of justice unto all 

Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 

All who have sin, however great or small : 
But good he well remembers to restore. 

Nor without justice holy could we call 
Him, whom I now require you to adore. 

All men must make his will their wishes sway. 

And quickly and spontaneously obey. 



MORGANTE MA GG 10 RE. 



215 



E sonsi i nostri dottori accordati, 
Pigliando tutti una conclusione, 
Cne que' che son nel ciel glorificati, 
S'avessin nel pensier compassione 
De" niiseri parent! che dannati 
Son ne lo inferno in gran confusione, 
La lor felicita nulla sarebbe ; 
E vedi che qui ingiusto Iddio parrebbe. 



LII. 

Ma egli anno posto in Gesfi ferma spene ; 
E tanto pare a lor, quanto a lui pare ; 
Afferman cio ch'e'ia, che facci bene, 
E chenon possi in nessun modo errare : 
Se padre o madre e nell' eterne pene, 
Di questo.non si posson contubare : 
Che quel che place a Die, sol place a loro : 
Questo s'osserva ne I'eterno coro. 



Al savio suol bastar poche parole, 
Disse Morgante ; tu il potrai vedere, 
De' miei fratelli, Orlando, se mi duole, 
E s' io m'accordero di Dio ai volere. 
Come tu di' che in ciel servar si suole : 
Morti co' morti ; or pensiani di godere 
Io vo tagliar le mani a tutti quanti, 
E porteroUe a que' monaci santi, 



LIV. 

Accio ch'ognun sia piii sicuro e certo, 
Com' e' son morti, e non abbin paura 
Andar soletti per questo deserto ; 
E perch^ veggan la mia mcnte pura 
A quel Signor che m'ha il suo regno aperto, 
E tratto fuor di tenebre si oscura. 
E poi taglio le mani a' due fratelli, 
E lasciagli a le fiere ed agli uccelli. 



LV. 

A la badia insieme se ne vanno, 
Ove I'abate assai dubbioso aspetta : 
I monaci che'l fatto ancor non sanno, 
Correvano a I'abate tutti in fretta, 
Dicendo paurosi e pien! d'aftanno : 
Volete voi cestui drente si mctta ? 
Quando I'abate vedeva il gigante. 
Si turbo tutto nel primo sembiante. 



Orlando che turbato cosi il vede, 
Gli disse presto ; abate, datti.pace, 



LI. 

" And here our doctors are of one accord, 
Coming on this point to the same conclu- 
sion, — 
That in their thoughts who praise in heaven 
the Lord, 
If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 
For their unfortunate relations stored 

In hell below, and damned in great confu- 
sion, — 
Their happiness would be reduced to nought, 
And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 

LII. 
" But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
Which seems to him, Xp them too must ap- 
pear 
Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall : 

He never can in any purpose err. 
If sire or mother suffer endless thrall. 
They don't disturb themselves for him or 
her ; 
What pleases God to them must joy inspire ; — 
Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 

LIII. 
" A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 

" Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 
How much I grieve about my brethren dead ; 

And if the will of God seem good to me. 
Just, as you tell me, 'tis in heaven obeyed — 

Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be 1 
I will cut off the hands from both their trunks, 
And carry them unto the holy monks. 

Liv. 
" So that all persons may be sure and certain 
That they are dead, and have no further fear 
To wander solitary this desert in. 

And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the 
curtain 
Of darkness, making his bright realm ap- 
pear." 
He cut his brethren's hands off at these words, 
And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 

LV. 
Then to the abbey they went on together. 

Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 
The monks who knew not yet the fact, ran 
thither 

To their superior, all in breathless rout, 
Saying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 

You wish to have this person in or out ? " 
The abbot, looking through upon the giant. 
Too greatly feared, at ficst, to be compliant. 

LVI. 
Orlando seeing him thus agitated. 

Said quickly, " Abbot, be thou of good 
cheer; 



216 



M ORG ANTE MAGGIORE. 



Questo e Cristiano, e in Cristo nostro crede, 
E rinnegato ha il suo Macon fallace. 
Morgante i moncherin niostro per fede, 
Come i giganti ciascun morto giace ; 
Donde I'abate ringraziavia Iddio, 
Dicendo ; or m' hai contento. Signor mio ! 



E risguardava, e squadrava Morgante, 
La sua grandezza e una volta e due, 
E poi gli disse : O famoso gigante, 
Sappi ch'io non mi maraviglio piiie, 
Che tu svegHessi e gittassi le piante, 
Quand'io riguardo or le fattezze tue, 
Tu sarai or perfetto e vero amico 
A Cristo, quanto tu gli eri nimico. 



LVIII. 

Un nostro apostol, Saul gia chiamato, 
Persegui molto la fede di Cristo : 
Un giorno poi da lo spirto infiammato, 
Perche pur mi persegui ? disse Cristo : 
E' si ravvide allor del suo peccato ; 
Ando poi predic ando sempre Cristo; 
E fatto e or de la fede una tromba, 
La qual per tutto risuona e rimbomba. 



LIX. 

Cosi farai tu ancor, Morgante mio : 
E chi s'emenda, e scritto nel Vangelo, 
Che maggior festa fa d'un solo Iddio, 
Che di novantanove altri su in cielo : 
lo ti conforto ch'ogni tuo disio 
Rivolga a quel Signor con giusto zelo, 
Che tu sarai felice in sempiterno, 
Ch'eri perduto, e dannato all' inferno. 



E grande onore a Morgante faceva 
L'abate, e molti di si son posati : 
Un giorno, come ad Orlando piaceva, 
A spasso in qua e in la si sono andati : 
L'abate in una camera sua aveva 
Molte armadure e certi archi appiccati : 
Morgante gliene piacque un che ne vede : 
Onde e' sel cinse bench' oprar nol crede. 



A vea quel luogo d'acqua carestia : 
Orlando disse come buon fratello, 
Morgante, vo' che di placer ti sia 
Andar per I'acqua ; ond' e' rispose a quello 
Comanda cio ohe vuoi che fatto sia ; 



He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 
And hath renounced his Macon false ; " 
which here 
Morgante with the hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear : 
Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God 

adored. 
Saying, "Thou hast contented me, oh Lord !" 

LVII. 

He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated, 
And more than once contemplated his size : 

And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 
Know, that no more my wonder will arise, 

How you could tear and fiing the trees you 
late did. 
When I behold your form with my own eyes. 

You now a true and perfect friend will show 

Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 

LVIII. 
" And one of our apostles, Saul once named. 

Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
' Why dost thou persecute me thus? ' said 
Christ; 
And then from his offence he was reclaimed. 
And went for ever after preaching Christ, 
And of the faith became a trump, whose 

sounding 
O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebound- 
ing. 

LIX. 
"So, my Morgante, you may do likewise; 
He who repents — thus writes the Evange- 
list- 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 

Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 

With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 
Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
But you were lost and damned to hell before ! 

LX. 

And thus great honor to Morgante paid 
The abbot : many days they did repose. 

One day, as with Orlando they both strayed. 
And sauntered here and there, where'er they 
chose. 

The abbot showed a chamber, where arrayed 
Much armor was, and hung up certain bows ; 

And one of these Morgante for a whim 

Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 



There being a want of water in the place, 
Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 

" Morgante, I could wish you in this case 
To go for water." " You shall be obeyed 

In all commands," was the reply, "straight- 
ways." 



MOR GANTE MA G GIORE. 



217 



E posesi in ispalla un gran tinello, 

Ed avviossi lA verso una fonte 

Dove solea ber senipre appiS del monte. 

LXII. 
Giunto a la fonte, sente un gran fracasso 
Di subito venir per la toresta : 
Una saetta cavo del turcasso, 
Posela a I'arco, ed alzava la testa ; 
Ecco apparire un gran gregge al passo 
Di porci, e vanno con molta tempesta ; 
E arrivorno alia fontana appunto 
Donde 11 gigante 6 da lor sopraggiunto. 

LXIII. 
Morgante a la ventura a un saetta ; 
Appunto ne I'orecchio lo 'ncarnava; 
Da I'altro lato pass& la verretta ; 
Onde 11 cinghial giu morto gambettava ; 
Un altro, quasi per fame vendetta, 
Addosso al gran gigante irato andava ; 
E perch^ e' giunse troppo tosto al varco, 
Non iu Morgante a tempo atrar con I'arco. 

LXIV. 
Vedendosi venuto 11 porco adosso, 
Gil dette in su la testa un gran punzone i 
Per modo che gl'infranse insino a I'osso, 
E morto allato a quell'altro lo pone : 
Gli altri porci veggendo quel percosso, 
Si misson tutti in fuga pel vallone; 
Morgante si levo il tinello in collo, 
Ch'era pien d'acqua, e non si muove un 

^^^"°- LXV. 

Da Tuna spalla 11 tinello avea posto, 

Da I'altra 1 porci, e spacciava 11 terreno ; 
E torna a la badia, ch'e pur discosto 
Ch" una gocciola d'acqua non va in seno. 
Orlando che'l vedea tornar si tosto 
Co' porci morti, e con quel vaso pieno, 
Maravigliossi che sia tanto forte ; 
Cosi I'abate ; e spalancan le porte. 

LXVI. 
I monaci veggendo I'acqua fresca 
Si rallegrorno, ma piu de' cinghiali ; 
Ch'ogni animal si rallegra de I'esca ; 
E posano a dormire 1 breviali : 
Ognun s'affanna, e non par che gl'incresca, 
Accio che questa carne non s'insali, 
E che poi secca sapesse dl vieto : 
E la digiune si restorno a drieto. 

LXVI I. 

E ferno a scoppia corpo per un tratto, 
E scuffian, che parien de I'acqua usciti ; 

1 "Gli dette in su la testa un gran punzone." It 
is strange that Pulci should have literally anticipated 
the technical terms of my old friend and master, 
Jackson, and the art which he has carried to its 
highest pitch. " A punch on the head,'" or " a 
punch in the head" — " un punzone in su la tes- 
ta,"— is the exact and frequent phrase of our best 



Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid, 
And went out on his way unto a fountain. 
Where he was wont to drink below the moun- 

^^'"- LXII. 

Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, 

Which suddenly along the forest spread; 
Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 

An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 
And lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears. 

And onward rushes with tempestuous tread. 
And to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 
So that the giant's joined by all the boars. 

LXIII. 
Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 

Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 
And passed unto the other side quite thorough ; 

So that the boar, defunct, lay tripped up near. 
Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 

Against the giant rushed in fierce career, 
And reached the passage with so swift a foot, 
Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 

LXIV. 
Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 

He gave him such a punch upon the head 
As floored him so that he no more arose. 

Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 
Next to the other. Having seen such blows. 

The other pigs along the valley fled ; 
Morgante on his neck the bucket took, 
Full from the spring, which neither swerved 
nor shook. 

The ton was on one shoulder, and there were 
The hogs on t'other, and he brushed apace 

On to the abbey, though by no means near. 
Nor spilt one drop of water In his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 

With the dead boars, and with that brimful 
vase, 

Marvelled to see his strength so very great ; 

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXVI, 
The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 
Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the 
pork ; — 
All animals are glad at sight of food : 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 
With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 
That the flesh needs no salt beneath their 
fork. 
Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 
For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

LXVII. 
As though they wished to burst at once, they 
ate ; 
And gorged so that, as If the bones had been 

pugilists, who little dream that they are talking the 
purest Tuscan. 



218 



M ORG ANTE MAG G TORE. 



Tanto che'l cane sen doleva e '1 gatto, 
Che gli ossi rimanean troppo puliti. 
L'abate, poi che molto. onoro ha fatto 
A tutti, un di dopo questi conviti 
Dette a Morgante un destrier molto bello, 
Che lungo tempo tenuto avea quelle. 



Morgante in su 'n un prato il caval mena, 
E vuol che corra, e che facci ogni pruova, 
E pensa che di ferro abbi la schiena, 
O forse non credeva schiacciar I'uova : 
Questo caval s'accoscia per la pena, 
E scoppia, e 'n su la terra si ritruova. 
Dicea Morgante: lieva su, rozzone; 
E va pur punzecchiando con lo sprone. 



LXIX. 

Ma finalmente convien ch' egli smonte, 
E disse : io son pur leggier come penna, 
Ed ^ scoppiato ; che ne di' tu, conte ? 
Rispose Orlando : un arbore d'antenna 
Mi par piuttosto, e la gaggia la fronte : 
Lascialo andar, che la fortuna accenna 
Che meco appiede ne venga, Morgante. 
Ed io cosi verro, disse il gigante. 



LXX. 

Quando sarA. mestier, tu mi vedrai 
Com'io mi provero ne la battaglia. 
Orlando disse : io credo tu farai 
Come buon cavalier, se Dio mi vaglia ; 
Ed anco me dormir non mirerai : 
Di questo tuo caval non te ne caglia : 
Vorrebbesi portarlo in qualche bosco; 
Ma il modo ne la via non ci conosco. 



LXXI. 

Disse il gigante : io il portero ben io, 
Da poi che portar me non ha voluto. 
Per render ben per mal, come fa Dio; 
Ma vo' che a porlo addosso mi dia ajuto. 
Orlando gli dicea: Morgante mio, 
S'al mio consiglio ti sarai attenuto, 
Questo caval tu non ve '1 porteresti, 
Che ti fara come tu a lui facesti, 



Guarda che non facesse la vendetta, 
Come fece giA Nesso cosi morto : 
Non so se la sua istoria hai inteso o letta : 
E' ti fara scoppiar ; datti conforto. 
Disse Morgante : ajuta ch'io me '1 metta 



In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat. 
Perceiving that they all were picked too 
clean. 
The abbot, who to all did honor great, 
A few" days after this convivial scene, 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train. xi, 
Which he long time had for himself main- 
tained. 

LXVIII. 
The horse Morgante to a meadow led. 

To gallop, and to put him to the proof, 
Thinking that he a back of iron had, 

Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 
But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and 
hoof. 
Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur! " 
And still continued pricking with the spur. 

LXIX. 
But finally he thought fit to dismount. 

And said, " I am as light as any feather, 
And he has burst; — to this what say you, 
count ? " 
Orlando answered, " Like a ship's mast 
rather 
You seem to me, and with the truck for 
front : — 
Let him go ; Fortune wills that we together 
vShould march, but you on foot Morgante still." 
To which the giant answered, " So I will. 

LXX. 
" When there shall be occasion, you will see 

How I approve my courage in the fight." 
Orlando said, " I really think you'll be, 

If it should prove God's will,a goodly knight ; 
Nor will you napping there discover me. 

But never mind your horse, though out of 
sight 
'Twere best to carry him into some wood, 
If but the means or way I understood." 

LXXL 

The giant said, " Then carry him I will. 
Since that to carry me he was so slack — 

To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
But lend, a hand to place him on my back." 

Orlando answered, " If my counsel still 
May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 

To lift or carry this dead courser, who. 

As you have done to him, will do to you. 

LXXII. 
" Take care he don't revenge himself, though 
dead. 
As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 
I don't know if the fact you've heard or read ; 
But he will make you burst, you may be 
sure." 
" But help him on my back," Morgante said, 



M ORG ANTE MAGGIORE. 



219 



Addosso, e poi vedrai s'io vc lo porto ; 
lo porterei, Orlando mio gentile, 
Con le campane la quel campanile. 



LXXIII. 

Disse I'abate : il campanil v'6 bene ; 
Ma le campane voi I'avete rotte. 
Dicea Morgante, e' ne porton le pene 
Color che morti son la in quelle grotte ; 
E levossi 11 cavallo in su le schiene, 
E disse : guarda s'io sento di gotte, 
Orlando, nelle gambe, e s' io lo posso ; 
E fe' duo salti col cavallo addosso. 



LXXIV. 

Era Morgante come una montagna : 
Se facea questo, non h maraviglia : 
Ma pure Orlando con seco si lagna ; 
Perchd pur era omai di sua famiglia, 
Temenza avea non pigliasse magagna. 
Un' altra volta costui riconsiglia : 
Posalo ancor, nol portare al deserto. 
Disse Morgante : il porterb per certo. 



E portollo, e gittollo in luogo strano, 
E torno a la badia subitamente. 
Diceva Orlando : or che piu dimoriano ? 
Morgante, qui non facciam noi niente. 
E prese un giorno I'abate per mano, 
E disse a quel molto discretamente, 
Che vuol partir de la sua reverenzia, 
E domandava e perdono e licenzia. 



LXXVI. 

E de gli onor ricevuti da questi, 

Qualche volta potendo, ara buon merito ; 
E dice : io intendo ristorare e presto 
I persi giorni del tempo preterit© : 
E' son piu di che licenzia arei chiesto, 
Benigno padre, se non ch' io mi perito ; 
Non so mostrarvi quel che drento sento ; 
Tanto vi veggo del mio star contento. 



Io me ne porto per sempre nel core 
L'abate, la badia, questo deserto ; 
Tanto v'ho posto in picciol tempo amore 
Rendavi su nel ciel per me buon merto 
Quel vero Dio, quello eterno Signore 
Che vi serba il suo regno al fine aperto : 
Noi aspettiam vostra ben^dizione, 
Raccomandiamci a le vostre orazione. 



" And you shall see what weight I can en- 
dure. 
In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 
With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfry." 



The abbot said, " The steeple may do well, 
But, lor the bells, you've broken them, I 
wot." 

Morgante answered, " Let them pay in hell 
The penalty who lie dead in yon grot ; " 

And hoisting up the horse from where he 
fell, 
He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ; " — 

And then he made two gambols with the horse. 

LXXIV. 

Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 

So if he did this, 'tis no prodigy; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Because he was one of his family ; 
And fearing that he might be hurt or maimed, 

Once more he bade him lay his burden by : 
" Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." 
Morgante said, "I'll carry him for certain." 



He did ; and stowed him in some nook away, 
And to the abbey then returned with speed. 

Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay ? 
Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." 

The abbot by the hand he took one day. 
And said, with great respect, he had agreed 

To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 

He wished to have his pardon and permission. 



The honors they continued to receive 

Perhaps exceeded what his merits claimed : 

He said, " I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 
The lost days of time past, which may be 
blamed ; 

Some days ago I should have asked your leave, 
Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 

And know not how to show my sentiment. 

So much I see you with our stay content. 

LXXVII. 

" But in my heart I bear through every cUme 

The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 
So much I love you in so short a time ; 

For me, from heaven reward you with all 
good 
The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
Whose kingdom at the last hath open 
stood. 
Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing, 
And recommend us to your prayers with press- 
ing." 



220 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Quando I'abate il conte Orlando intese, 
Rinteneri nel cor per la dolcezza, 
Tanto fervor nel petto se gli accese ; 
E disse : cavalier, se a tua prodezza 
Non sono stato benigno e cortese, 
Come conviensi a la gran gentillezza, 
Che so che cio ch'i'ho fatto e stato poco, 
Incolpa la ignoranzia nostra e il loco. 

LXXIX. 

Noi ti potremo di messe onorare, 
Di prediche, di laude, e paternostri, 
Piuttosto che da cena o desinare, 
O d'altri convenevol che da chiostri. 
Tu m'hai di te si fatto innamorare 
Per mille alte excellenzie che tu mostri, 
Ch'io me ne vengo ove tu andrai con teco 
E d'altra parte tu resti qui meco. 

LXXX. 

Tanto ch'a questo par contraddizione ; 
Ma so che tu se' savio, e 'ntendi e gusti, 
E intendi il mio parlar per discrizione. 
De' beneficj tuoi pietosi*e giusti 
Renda il Signore a te munerazione, 
Da cui mandato in queste selve fusti ; 
Per le virtti del qual liberi siamo, 
E grazie a lui e a te noi ne rendiamo. 

LXXXI. 

Tu ci hai salvato I'anima e la vita : 
Tanta perturbazion gi^ que' giganti 
Ci detton, che la strada era smarrita 
Da ritrovar Gesu con gli altri santi. 
Pero troppo ci duol la tua partita, 
E sconsolati restiam tutti quanti ; 
N^ ritener possiamti i mesi e gli anni : 
Che tu non se' da vestir questi panni, 

LXXXII. 

Ma da portar la lancia e 1' armadura : 
E puossi meritar con essa, come 
Con questa cappa ; e leggi la scrittura : 
Questo gigante al ciel drizzo le some 
Per tua virtii ; va in pace a tua ventura 
Chi tu ti sia, ch'io non ricerco il nome ; 
Ma diro sempre, s'io son domandato, 
Ch' un angiol qui da Dio fussi mandato. 



LXXXIII. 

Se z'h armadura o cosa che tu voglia, 
Vattene in zambra e pigliane tu stessi, 
E cuopri a questo gigante le scoglia. 
Rispose Orlando : se armadura avessi 
Prima che noi uscissim de la soglia, 
Che questo mio compagno difen dessi 



LXXVIII. 
Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard, 

His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, 
Such fervor in his bosom bred each word ; 

And, " Cavalier," he said, " if I have less 
Courteous and kind to your great worth ap- 
peared. 

Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 
I know I have done too little in this case ; 
But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 

LXXIX. 
" We can indeed but honor you with masses. 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater- 
nosters. 
Hot suppers, dinners (fitting other places 

In verity much rather than the cloisters) ; 
But such a love for you my heart embraces, 
For thousand virtues which your bosom 
fosters, 
That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be. 
And, on the other part, you rest with me. 

LXXX. 

"This may involve a seeming contradiction; 

But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste. 
And understand my speech with fullconviction. 

For your just pious deeds may you be graced 
With the Lord's great reward and benediction. 

By whom you were directed to this waste : 
To his high mercy is our freedom due. 
For which we render thanks to him and you. 

LXXXL 

" You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
The giants caused us, that the way was lost 

By which we could pursue a fit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly, host ; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here. 
That comfortless we all are to our cost ; 

But months and years you would not stay in 
sloth. 

Nor are you formed to wear our sober cloth ; 

Lxxxn. 
" But to bear arms, and wieldthelance ; indeed, 

With these as much is done as with this cowl ; 
In proof of which the Scripture you may read. 

This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 
By your compassion : now in peace proceed. 

Your state and name I seek not to unroll ; 
But, if I'm asked, this answer shall be given. 
That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 

LXXXIIL 

" If you want armor or aught else, go in. 
Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you 
choose. 
And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 

Orlando answered, " If there should lie loose 
Some armor, ere our journey we begin. 
Which might be turned to my companion's 
use, 



THE BLUES. 



221 



Questo accetto io, e sarammi piaccre. 
Disse I'abate : venite a vedere. 



LXXXIV. 

E in certa cameretta cntrati sono, 

Che d'arniadure vecchie era copiosa; 
Dice I'abate, tutte ve le dono. 
Morgante va rovistando ogni cosa ; 
Ma sclo un certo sbergo gii fu buono, 
Cli'avea tutta la maglia rugginosa : 
Maravigliossi che Io cuopra appunto : 
Che mai piu gnun forse glien' era aggiunto. 

LXXXV. 

Questo fu d'un gigante smisurato, 
Ch'a la badia fu morto per antico 
Dal gran Milon d'Angrante, ch' arrivato 
V era, s'appunto questa istoria dico ; 
Ed era ne le mura istoriato, 
Come e' fu morto questo gran nimico, 
Che fece a la badia gia lunga guerra : 
E Milon v'6 com' e' I'abbatte in terra. 

LXXXVI.. 

Veggendo quesla istoria il conte Orlando, 
Fra suo cor disse : o Dio, che sai sol tutto, 
Come venne Milon qui capitando, 
Che ha questo gigante qui distrutto ? 
E lesse certe letter lacrimando, 
Che non pote tenir piu il viso asciutto, 
Com'io diro ne la seguente istoria. 
Di mal vi guardi il Re de I'alta gloria. 



The gift would be acceptable to me." 

The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 

LXXXIV. 

And in a certain closet, where the wall 
Was covered with old armor like a crust, 

The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 
Mt)rgante rummaged piecemeal from the 
dust 

The whole, which save one cuirass, was too 
small, 
And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 

They wondered how it fitted him exactly, 

Which ne'er has suited others so compactly. 

LXXXV. 

'Twas an immeasurable giant's, who 
By the great Milo of Agrante fell 

Before the abbey many years ago. 

The story on the wail was figured well; 

In the last moment of the abbey's foe. 
Who long had waged a war implacable : 

Precisely as the war occurred they drew him, 

And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 

LXXXVL 
Seeing this history, Count Orlando said 

In his own heart, " Oh God, who in the sky 
Know'st all things ! how was Milo hither led ? 

Who caused the giant in this place to die ? " 
And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 

So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 
As I will tell in the ensuing story. 
From evil keep you the high King of glory. 



THE BLUES; A LITERARY ECLOGUE.* 



" Nimium ne crede colorl." — Virgil. 

O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 

Though your hair were as red^ as your stockings are blue. 



[This trifle, which Byron has himself designated as " a mere buffoonery, never meant for publication," 
was written in 1820, and first appeared in "The Liberal." The personal allusions in which it abounds 
are, for the most part, sufficiently intelligible; and, with a few exceptions, so good-humored, that the 
parties concerned may be expected to join in the laugh.] 



1 [" About the year 1781, it was much the fashion for several ladies to have evening assemblies, where 
trie fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to 
please. These societies were denominated dhie-siocking Clubs ) the origin of which title being little 
known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those societies, when 



222 



THE BLUES. 



ECLOGUE FIRST. 

London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 

Enter TRACY, meeting INKEL. 

Lik. You're too late. 
Tra. Is it over ? 

Ink. Nor will be this hour. 

But the benches are crammed, like a garden 

in flower. 
With the pride of our belles, who have made 

it the fashion ; 
So, instead of "beaux arts," we may say " la 

belle passion " 
For learning, which lately has taken the lead 

in 
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen 

reading. 
Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out 

my patience 
With studying to study your new publica- 
tions. 
There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and 

Wordswords and Co. 
With their damnable — 

Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 
Whom you speak to ? 

Tra. Right well, bov, and so does " the 

Row:"i 
You're an author — a poet — 

Ink. And think you that I 

Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
The Muses ? 

Tra. Excuse me : I meant no offence 

To the Nine ; though the number who make 

some pretence 
To their favors is such but the subject to 

drop 
I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
( Next door to the pastry-cook's ; so that 

when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two 

paces. 
As one finds every author in one of those 

places ; 



^ [Paternoster-row — long and still celebrated as 
a very bazaar of booksellers. Sir Walter Scott 
"hitches into rhyme" one of the most important 
firms — that 

" Of Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown 
Our fathers of the Row."] 



Where I just had been skimming a charming 

critique. 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with 

Greek ! 
Where your friend — you know who — has just 

got such a threshing, 
That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely " r& 

freshing." 2 
What a beautiful w^ord ! 

Ink. Very true ; 'tis so soft 

And so cooling — they use it a little too oft ; 
And the papers have got it at last — but no 

matter. 
So they've cut up our friend then ? 

Tra. Not left him a tatter — 

Not a rag of his present or past reputation, 
Which they call a disgrace to the age and the 
nation. 
Ink. I'm sorry to hear this 1 for friendship. 

you know 

Our poor friend ! — but I thought it would 

terminate so. 
Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to 

shock it. 
You don't happen to have the Review in your 
pocket ? 
Tra. No ; I left a round dozen of authors 
and others 
(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a 

brother's) 
All scrambling and jostling, like so many 

imps. 
And on fire with impatience to get the next 
glimpse. 
Ink. Let us join them. 
Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 
Ink. Why, the place is so crammed, there's 
not room for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so 
absurd — 
Tra. How can you know that till you hear 

him ? 
Ink. I heard 

Quite enough ; and to tell you the truth, my 

retreat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the 
heat. 
Tra. I have had no great loss then ? 
I)tk. Loss ! — such a palaver ! 

I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 



2 [This cant phrase was first used in the Edin- 
burgh Review — probably by Mr. Jeffrey.] 



they first commenced, was Mr. Stillingfleet, whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was 
observed that he wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was 
felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, ' We can do nothing without the blue stockings; ' and thus 
by degrees the title was established." — Croker's Bosivell, vol. iv. p. 480. — Sir William Forbes, in his 
Life of Dr. Beattie, says, that " a foreigner of distinction hearing the expression, translated it literally 
• Bus Bleu,'' by which these meetings came to be distinguished. Miss Hannah More, who was herself a 
iiember, has written a poerni with the title of Bas Bleu,' in allusion to this mistake of the foreigner, in 
which she has characterized most of the eminent personages of which it was composed."] 



THE BLUES. 



223 



Of a dog when gone rabid, tlian listen two 

hours 
To the torrent of trash whicli around him he 

pours, 
Pumped up with such effort, disgorged with 
such labor, 

That come — do not make me speak ill of 

one's neighbor. 
Tra. I make you ! 
Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 

You compelled me, by speaking the truth 

Tra. To speak ill? 

Is that your deduction ? 

Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 

I certainly follow, 7/ot st-t an example. 
The fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 
Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that 
one fool makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 

Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 

Tra. I would, but 

Ink. There must be attraction much higher 
Than Scamp, or the Jews' harp he nicknames 

his lyre. 
To call >'(?« to this hotbed. 

Tra. I own it — 'tis true — 

A fair lady 

Ink. A spinster ? 
Tra. Miss Lilac ! 

Ink. The Blue ! 

The heiress ? 

Tra. The angel 1 

Ink. The devil ! why, man ! 

Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
You wed with Miss Lilac! 'twould be your 

perdition : 
She's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. 
Tra. I say she's an angel. 
Ink. Say rather an angle. 

If you and she marry, you'll certainly wrangle. 
I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 
Tra. And is that any cause for not coming 

together ? 
Ink. Humph ! I can't say I know any happy 
alliance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock 

with science. 
She's so learned in all things, and fond of 

concerning 
Herself in all matters connected with learning. 

That 

Tra. What ? 

Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my tongue ; 
But there's five hundred people can tell you 
you're wrong. 
Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a 

Jew. 
Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you 

pursue ? 
Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you — 
something of both. 
The girl's a fine girl. 



Ink. And you feel nothing loth 

To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and 

yet 
Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 
Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes ; 
I demand 
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter 
and hand. 
Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand — 

that hand on the pen. 
Tra. A propos — Will you writs me a song 

now and then ? 
Ink. To what purpose ? 
Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in 
prose 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; 

But in rhyme 

Ink. You're a terrible stick, to be sure. 

Tra. I own it ; and yet in these times, 
there's no lure 
For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two ; 
And so as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 
Ink. In your name ? 

Tra. In my name. I will copy them out, 
To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 
Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard 

this? 
Tra. Why, 
Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stock- 
ing's eye, 
So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
What I've told her in prpse, at the least, as 
sublime ? 
Ink. As sublime! If it be so, no need of 

my Muse. 
Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one 

of the " Blues." 
Ink. As sublime ! — Mr. Tracy — I've 
nothing to say. 
Stick to prose — As sublime!! — but I wish 
you good day. 
Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consider 

— I'm wrong; 

I own it ; but, prithee, compose me the song. 
bik. As sublime ! ! 

Tra. I but used the expression in haste. 
Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows 

damned bad taste. 
Tra. I o\\ n it — know it — acknowledge it 

— what 

Can I say to you more ? 

Ink. I see what you'd be at : 

You disparage my parts with insidious abuse, 
Till you think you can turn them best to your 
own use. 

Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 

Ink. Why that 

To be sure makes a difference. 

Tra. I know what is what 

And you, who're a man of the gay world, no 

less 
Than a poet of t'other, may easily guess 



224 



THE BLUES. 



That I never could mean, by a word, to 

offend 
A genius like you, and moreover my friend. 
Ink. No doubt; you by this time should 
know what is due 

To a man of but come — let us shake 

hands. 
Tra. You knew, 

And you kfiow, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. 
Ink. That's my bookseller's business ; I 
care not for sale ; 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's 

plays,! 
And my own grand romance — 

Tra. Had its full share of praise. 

I myself saw it puffed in the " Old Girl's Re- 
view." 2 
Ink. What Review? 

Tra. 'Tis the English "Jour- 

nal de Trevoux ; " 3 
A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never seen it ? 

Ink. That pleasure's to come. 

Tra. Make haste then. 
Ink. Why so ? 

Tra. I have heard people say 

That it threatened to give up the ghost t'other 
day. 
Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 
Tra. No doubt. 

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's 
rout? 
Ink. I've a card, and shall go : but at pres- 
ent, as soon 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step 

down from the moon 
(Where he seems to be soaring in search of 

his wits), 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation. 
To partake of a luncheon and learned con- 
versation : 
'Tis a sort of re-union for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue 

and praise. 
And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not un- 
pleasant. 
Will you go ? There's Miss Lilac will also 
be present. 
Tra. That " metal's attractive." 
Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 

' [Messrs. Southey and Sotheby.] 

2 [" My Grandmother's Review, the British." 
Which has since been gathered to its grandmothers.] 

3 [The "Journal de Trevoux" (in fifty-six vol- 
umes) is one of the most curious collections of lit- 
eraiy gossip in the world, — and the Poet paid the 
British Review an extravagant compliment, when 
he made this comparison.] 



encouragft my 
by the 



think, 



let us go, then, before they 



Tra. You should rather 

passion than shock it. 
But let us proceed ; for I 

hum 

Ink. Very true ; 

can come, 
Or else we'll be kept here an hour at their 

levy. 
On the rack of cross-questions, by all the blue 

bevy. 
Hark ! Zounds, they'll be on us ; I know by 

the drone 
Of old Botherby's spouting ex-cathedra tone. 
Ay ! there he is at it. Poor Scamp ! better 

join 
Your friends, or he'll pay you back in your 

own coin. 
Tra. All fair; 'tis but lecture for lecture. 
Ink. That's clear. 

But for God's sake let's go, or the Bore will 

bp here. 

Come, come; nay, I'm off. [Exit INKEL. 

Tra. You are right, and I'll follow; 

'Tis high time for a " Sic me servavit Apollo." * 

And yet we shall have the whole crew on our 

kibes, 
Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second- 
hand scribes, 
All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 
[Exit Tracy. 



ECLOGUE SECOND. 

An Apartment in the House of Lady BLUE- 
BOTTLE. — A Table prepared. 

Sir Richard Bluebottle solus. 

Was there ever a man who was married so 

sorry ? 
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a 

hurry. 
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroyed ; 



* [" Sotheby is a good man — rhymes well (if not 
wisely) ; but is a bore. He seizes you by the but- 
ton. One night of a rout at Mrs. Hope's, he had 
fastened upon me — (something about Agamemnon, 
or Orestes, or some of his plays) notwithstanding 
my symptoms of manifest distress — (for I was in 
love, and just nicked a minute when neither moth- 
ers, nor husbands, nor rivals, nor gossips were near 
my then idol, who was beautiful as the statues of 
the gallery where we stood at the time). Sotheby, 
I say, had seized upon me by the button and the 
heart-strings, and spared neither. William Spencer, 
who likes fun, and don't dislike mischief, saw my 
case, and coming up to us both, took me by the 
hand, and pathetically bade me farewell; "for," 
said he, " I see it is all over with you." Sotheby 
then went away : ' sic me servavit Apollo.' " — 
Byron^s Diary^ 1821.] 



THE BLUES. 



llh 



My days, which once passed in so gentle a void, 

Must now, every hour of the twelve, be em- 
ployed : 

The twelve, do I say ? — of the whole twenty- 
four, 

Is there one which I dare call my own any 
more ? 

What with driving and visiting, dancing and 
dining, 

What with learning, and teaching, and scrib- 
bling, and shining. 

In science and art, I'll be cursed if I know 

Myself from my wife ; for although we are two. 

Yet she somehow contrives that all things 
shall be done 

In a style which proclaims us eternally one. 

But the thing of all things which distresses 
me more 

Than the bills of the week (though they 
trouble me sore) 

Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 

Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and 
blue. 

Who are brought to my house as an inn, to 
my cost 

— For the bill here, it seems, is defrayed by the 
host — 

No pleasure ! no leisure ! no thought for my 
pains. 

But to hear a vile jargon which addles my 
brains ; 

A smatter and chatter, gleaned out of reviews, 

By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call 
" Blues; " 

A rabble who know not But soft, here 

they come ! 

Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll 
be dumb. 

Etiter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, 
Lady Bluemount, Mr. Botherby, In- 
KEL, Tracy, Miss Mazarine, and others, 
with Scamp the Lecturer, etc. etc. 

Lady Blueb. Ah ! Sir Richard, good morn- 
ing; I've brought you some friends. 
Sir Rich, (bows, and afterwards aside). If 

friends, they're the first. 

Lady Blueb. " But the luncheon attends. 

I pray ye be seated, " sans ceremonies 

Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued ; take your chair 

there, next me. [ They all sit. 

Sir Rich, (aside). If he does, his fatigue is 

to come. 
Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy — 

Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, 

pray to place ye ; 
And you, Mr. Botherby — 

Both. Oh, my dear Lady, 

I obey. 
Lady Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid 
ye: 
You were not at the lecture. 



/n^. Excuse me, I was ; 

But the heat forced me out in the best part — 
alas! 

And when 

Lady Bleub. To be sure it was broiling, 
but then 
You have lost such a lecture ! 

Both. The best of the ten. 

Tra. How can you know that ? there are 

two more. 
Both. Because 

I defy him to beat this day's wondrous ap- 
plause. 
The very walls shook. 

Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 

I allow our friend Scamp has this day done 

his best. 
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ; — a 
wing? 
Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who 

lectures next spring? 
Both. Dick Dunder. 
Ink. That is, if he lives. 

Miss LiL And why not ? 

Ink. No reason whatever, save that he's a 
. sot. 

Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Madeira ? 
Lady Bluem. With pleasure. 

Ink. How does your friend Wordswords, 
that Windermere treasure ? 
Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he 

sings, 
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors 
and kings ? 
Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 
Ink. As a footman ? 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! 

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 
Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied 
his master ; 
For the poet of pedlers 'twere, sure, no dis- 
aster 
To wear a new livery ; the more, as 'tis not 
The first time he has turned both his creed 
and his coat. 
Lady Bluem. • For shame ! I repeat. If 

Sir George could but hear 

Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkel ; 
we all know, my dear, 
'Tis his way. 

Sir Rich. But this place 

Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 

Lady Blueb. Excuse me — 'tis one in " the 
Stamps : " 
He is made a collector.i 

Tra. Collector ! 

Sir Rich. How ? 

Miss Lil. What ? 



1 [Wordsworth was collector of stamps for Cum- 
berland and Westmoreland, j 



226 



THE BLUES. 



Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy 
a new hat : 

There his works will appear 

Lady Dlucm. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 
Ink. I sha'n't go so far — I can have them 

at Grange's. 1 
Lady Bliicb. Oh fie ! 
Miss Lil. And for shame ! 

Lady Bluem. You're too bad. 

Both. Very good ! 

Lady Bluem. How good ? 
Lady Blueb. He means nought — 'tis his 

phrase. 
Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 

Lady Bleub. He means nothing ; nay, ask 

him. 
Lady Bluevt. Pray, sir ! did you mean 

What you say ? 

Ink. Never mind if he did ; 'twill be seen 
That whatever he means won't alloy what he 
says. 
Both. Sir! 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of 
praise ; 
'Twas in your defence. 

Both. If you please, with submission, 

I can make out my own. 

It?k. It would be your perdition. 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never de- 
fend 
Yourself or your works ; but leave both to a 

friend. 
A propos — Is your play then accepted at last ? 
Both. At last ? 

Bik. Why I thought — that's to say — there 
had passed 
A few green-room whispers, which hinted — 

you know- 
That the taste of the actors at best is so so.2 
Both. Sir, the green-room's in rapture, and 

so's the committee. 
Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting 
our " pity 
And fear," as the Greek says : for " purging 

the mind," 
I doubt if you'll leave us an «qual behind. 
Both. I have written the prologue, and 
meant to have prayed 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 
Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the 
play's to be played. 
Is it cast yet ? 

Both. The actors are fighting for parts. 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 
Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party, and 
go the first night. 



* Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and 
fruiterer in Piccadilly. 

2 [" When 1 belonged to the Drury Lane Com- 
mittee, the number of plays upon the shelves were 
about five hundred. Mr. Sotheby oblieingly offered 
us Ai.i, his tragedies, and I pledged myself, and — 



Tra. And you promised the epilogue, 

Inkel. 
Ink. Not quite. 

However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
I'll do what I can, though my pains must be 
double. 
Tra. Why so ? 

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I have no 
fears on that score. 

Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are 

Ink. Never mind wiw^; 

Stick to those of your play, which is quite 
your own line. 
Lady Bluem. You're a fugitive writer, I 

think, sir, of rhymes ? 
Ink. Yes, ma'am ; and a fugitive reader 
sometimes. 
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight. 
Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to 
flight. 
Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common ; 
but time and posterity 
Will right these great men, and this age's 

severity 
Become its reproach. 

Ink. I've no sort of objection, 

So I'm not of the party to take the infection. 
Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts 

that they ever will takef 
Ink. Not at all; on the contrary, those of 
the lake 
Have taken already, and still will continue 
To take — what they can, from a groat to a 

guinea, 
Of pension or place; — but the subject's a 
bore. 
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time's coming. 
Ink. Scamp ! don't you feel sore ? 

What say you to this ? 

Scamp. They have merit, I own ; 

Though their system's absurdity keeps it un- 
known. 
Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of 

your lectures ? 
Scamp. It is only time past which comes 

under my strictures. 
Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tart- 
ness : — the joy of my heart 
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
Wild nature ! — Grand Shakspeare I 

Both. And down Aristotle ! 

Lady Bluem. Sir George 3 thinks exactly 
with Lady Bluebottle; 

notwithstanding many squabbles with my commit- 
tee brethren — did get Ivan accepted, read, and the 
parts distributed. But lo! in the very heart of the 
matter, upon some te^/d-ness on the part of Kean, 
or warmth on that of the author, Sotheby withdrew 
his play." — Byron's Diary, 1821.] 

3 [Sir George Beaumont — a constant friend of 
Mr. Wordsworth.] 



THE BLUES. 



227 



And my Lord Seventy-four.i wlio protects our 

dear Bard, 
And who gave him his place, has the greatest 

regard 
For the poet, who, singing of pediers and 

asses, 
Has found out the way to dispense with 

Parnassus. 
Tra. And you, Scamp ! — 
Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embar- 
rass?; d. 
Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already 

so harassed 
With old schools, and new schools, and no 

schools, and all schools. 
Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some 

must be fools. 
I should like to know who. 

Ink. And I should not be sorry 

To know who are not: — it would save us 

some worry. 
Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let 

nothing control 
This " feast of our reason, and flow of the 

soul." 
Oh ! my dear Mr. Botherby ! sympathise ! — I 
Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly, 
I feel so elastic — " so buoyant — so buoyant ! " 2 
Ink. Tracy ! open the window. 
Tra. I wish her much joy on't. 

Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, 

check not 
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
Upon earth. Give it way; 'tis an impulse 

which lifts 
Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of gifts ; 
For which poor Prometheus was chained to 

his mountain. 
'Tis the source of all sentiment — feeling's 

true fountain : 
'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 'tis 

the gas 
Of the soul : 'tis the seizing of shades as they 

pass. 
And making them substance : 'tis something 

divine : — 



^ [It was not the late* Earl of Lonsdale; but 
James, the first earl, who offered to build, and man, 
a ship of seventy-four guns, towards the close of 
the American war, for the service of his country, at 
his own expense; — hence the soubriquet in the 
text.] 

' Fact from life, with the words. 



Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little 

more wine ? 
Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir, till I 

dine. 
Ink. A propos — Do you dine with Sir 

Humphry" to-day ? 
Tra. I should think with Duke Humphry 

was more in your way. 
Ink. It might be of yore; but we authors 
now look 
To the knight, as a landlord, much more than 

the Duke. 
The truth is, each writer now quite at his 

ease is. 
And (except with his publisher) dines where 

he pleases. 
But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the 
Park. 
Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there 
till 'tis dark. 
And you. Scamp — 

Scamp. Excuse me ; I must to my notes, 
For my lectures next week. 

Ink. He must mind whom he quotes 

Out of" Elegant Extracts." 

Lady Blueb. Well, now we break up ; 

But remember Miss Diddle ^ invites us to 
sup. 
Ink. Then at two hours past midnight we 
all meet again, 
For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and 
champagne ! 
Tra. And the sweet lobster salad 1 
Both. I honor that meal ; 

For 'tis then that our feelings most genu- 
inely — feel. 
Ink. True ; feeling is truest then, far be- 
yond question : 
I wish to the gods 'twas the same with diges- 
tion ! 
Lady Blueb. Pshaw 1 — never mind that ; 
for one moment of feeling 
Is worth — God knows what. 
Ink. 'Tis at least worth concealing 

For itself, or what follows But here comes 

your carriage. 
Sir Rich, (aside). 1 wish all these people 

were d d with my marriage ! 

[Exeunt. 



3 [Sir Humphry Davy, President of the Royal 
Society.] 

* [Miss Lydia White, an accomplished, clever, 
and truly amiable, but very eccentric lady.] 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 

BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF "WAT TYLER. 

" A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 



PREFACE. 



It hath been wisely said, that " One fool makes many; " and it hath been poetically observed, 
" That fools rush in where angels fear to tread." — Pope. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no business, and where he never was before, and 
never will be again, the following poem would not have been written. It is not impossible that it may be 
as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. 
The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and impious cant, of the poem by the 
author of " Wat Tyler," are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself — containing the 
quintessence of his own attributes. 

So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous 
Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed " Satanic School," the which he doth recommend to the 
notice of the legislature ; thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an informer. If 
there exists anywhere, excepting in his imagination, such a School, is he not sufficiently armed against 
it by his own intense vanity ? The truth is, that there are certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like 
Scrub, to have " talked oi him ; for they laughed consumedly." 

I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in 
their individual capacities, have done more good, in the charities of life, to their fellow-creatures in any 
one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities in his whole life; and this is saying 
a great deal. But I have a few questions to ask. 

ist. Is Mr. Southey the author of" Wat Tyler? " 

2d. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the highest judge of his beloved England, because it was 
a blasphemous and seditious publication ?i 

1 [In 1821, when Mr. Southey applied to the Court of Chancery for an injunction to restrain the publi- 
cation of" Wat Tyler," Lord Chancellor Eldon pronounced the following judgment: — " I have looked 
into all the affidavits, and have read the book itself. The bill goes the length of stating, that the work 
was composed by Mr. Southey in the year 1794; that it is his own production, and that it has been pub- 
lished by the defendants without his sanction or authority ; and therefore seeking an account of the profits 
which have arisen from, and an injunction to restrain, the publication. I have examined the cases that 
I have been able to meet with containing precedents for injunctions of this nature, and I find that they all 
proceed upon the ground of a title to the property in the plaintiff. On this head a distinction has been 
taken, to which a considerable weight of authority attaches, supported, as it is, by the opinion of Lord 
Chief Justice Eyre, who has expressly laid it down, that a person cannot recover in damages for a work 
which is, in its nature, calculated to do injury to the public. Upon the same principle this court refused 
an injunction in the case of Walcot " (Peter Pindar) " v. Walker, inasmuch as he could not have recov- 
ered damages in an action. After the fullest consideration, I remain of the same opinion as that which 
I entertained in deciding the case referred to. Taking all the circumstances into my consideration, it 
appears to me, that I cannot grant this injunction, until after Mr. Southey shall have established his right 
to the property by action." — Injunction refused.] 



PREFACE. 11^ 

3d. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full parliament, " a rancorous renegado P"^ 
4th. Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines on Martin the regicide staring him in the face?' 
And 5th. Putting the four preceding items together, with what conscience dare he call the attention 
of the laws to the publications of others, be they what they may ? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to 
touch upon the vioiive, which is neither more nor less than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in 
some recent publications, as he was of yore in the " Anti-jacobin " by his present patrons. ^ Hence all 
this " skimble scamble stuff" about " Satanic" and so forth. However, it is worthy of him — " qualis 
ab incepto." 

If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opinions of a portion of the public in the following 
poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hexameters, as he has written every thing 
else, for aught that the writer cared — had they been upon another subject. But to attempt to canonize 
a monarch, who, whatever were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king, — 
inasmuch as several years of his reign passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the 
aggression upon France, — like all other exaggeration, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever man- 
ner he may be spoken of in this new " Vision," his, public career will not be more favorably transmitted 
by history. Of his private virtues (although a little expensive to the nation) there can be no doubt. 

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say that I know as much about 
them, and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have also 

1 [Mr. William Smith, M.P. for Norwich, made a virulent attack on Mr. Southey in the House of 
Commons on the 14th of March, 1817, and the Laureate replied by a letter in the Co7trier.] 

2 [Among the effusions of Mr. Southey's juvenile muse, we find this " Inscription for the Apartment 
in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Martin, the Regicide, was imprisoned thirty years: — 

" For thirty years secluded from mankind 
Here Martm lingered. Often have these walls 
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread 
He paced around his prison. Not to him 
Did Nature's fair varieties exist; 
He never saw the sun's delightful beams; 
Save when through yon high bars he poured a sad 
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime? 
He had rebelled against the King, and sat 
In judgment on him; for his ardent mind 
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth, 
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such 
As Plato loved; such as, with holy zeal. 
Our Milton worshipped. Blessed hopes! awhile 
From man withheld, even to the latter days 
When Christ shall come and all things be fulfilled."] 

3 [The following imitation of the Inscription on the Regicide's Apartment, written by Mr. Canning, 
appeared in the " Anti-jacobin." — 

" Inscription for the Door of the Cell in Newgate, where Mrs. Brownrigg, the 'Prentice-cide, was con- 
fined, previous to her Execution. 

" For one long term, or ere her trial came. 
Here Brownrigg lingered. Often have these cells 
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice 
She screamed for fresh geneva. Not to her 
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, 
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand; 
Till at the last in slow-drawn cart she went 
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? 
She whipped two female 'prentices to death. 
And hid them ift the coal-hole. For her mind 
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes! 
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine 
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog 
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised 
Our Milton, when at college. For this act 
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come 
When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed."] 



230 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 

treated them more tolerantly. The way in which that pDor insane creature, the Laureate, deals about 
his judgments in the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, 
it would be something worse. I don't think that there is much more to say at present. 

QuEVEDO Redivivus. 

P. S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in these objectionable times, to the freedom with 
which saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this " Vision." But, for precedents upon such 
points, I must refer him to Fielding's "Journey from this World to the next," and to the Visions of 
myself, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested to observe, that no 
doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or discussed; that the person of the Deity is carefully withheld from 
sight, which is more than can be said for the Laureate, who hath thought proper to make him talk, not 
"like a school divine," but like the unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action passes on the out- 
side of heaven; and Chaucer's Wife of Bath, Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, Swift's Tale of a Tub, and 
the other works above referred to, are cases in point of the freedom with which saints, etc. may be per- 
mitted to converse in works not intended to be serious. Q. R. 

*** Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good Christian and vindictive, threatens, I understand, a reply 
to this our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary faculties will in the mean time have acquired a 
little more judgment, properly so called: otherwise he will get himself into new dilemmas. These 
apostate jacobins furnish rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudelh grievously 
"one Mr. Landor," who cultivates much private renown in the shape of Latin verses; and not long 
ago, the poet laureate dedicated to him, it appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, upon the strength of 
a poem called Gebir. Who could suppose, that in this same Gebir the aforesaid Savage Landor (for 
such is his grim cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less a parson than the hero of his friend 
Mr. Southey 's heaven, — yea, even George the Third! See also how personal Savage becometh, when 
he hath a mind. The following is his portrait of our late gracious sovereign: — 

(Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions, the shades of his royal ancestors are, at his 
request, called up to his view; and he exclaims to his ghostly guide) — 

" Aroar, what wretch that nearest us? what wretch 

Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow? 

Listen ! him yonder, who, bound down supine. 

Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung. 

He too amongst my ancestors ! I hate 
-The despot, but the dastard I despise. 

Was he our countryman? " 

" Alas, O king! 

Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 

Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east." 

" He was a warrior then, nor feared the gods? " 

" Gebir, he feared the demons, not the gods, 

Though them indeed his daily face adored; 

And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 

Squandered, as stones to exercise a sling. 

And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 

Oh madness of mankind! addressed, adored! " — Gebir, p. 28. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyhallics of Savagius, wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his 
grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suffer it; but certainly these teachers of "great moral 
lessons " are apt to be found in strange company. 



APPENDIX TO THE PREFACE. 

[Southey, in 1821, published a poem in English hexameters, entitled " A Vision of Judgment; " in 
the preface to which, after some observations on the peculiar style of its versification, occurs the follow- 
ing remarks: — 



APPENDIX TO THE PREFACE. 231 

" I am well aware that the public are peculiarly Intolerant of such innovations; not less so than the 
populace are of any foreign fashion, whetherof foppery or convenience. Would that this literary intoler- 
ance were under the-influence of a saner judgment, and regarded the morals more than the manner of a 
composition ; the spirit rather than the form ! Would that it were directed against those monstrous com- 
binations of hoirors and mockery, lewdness and impiety, with which English poetry has, m our days, 
first been polluted! For more than half a century En:j;lish literature had been distinguished by its moral 
purity, the effect, and, in its turn, the cause of an improvement in national manners. A father might, 
without apprehension of evil, have put into the hands of his children any book which issued from the 
press, if it did not bear, either in its title-page or frontispiece, manifest signs that it was intended as fur- 
niture for the brotliel. There was no danger in any work which bore the name of a respectable publisher, 
or was to be procured at any respectable bookseller's. This was particularly the case witii regard to our 
poetry. It is now no longer so: and woe to those by whom the offence cometh! The greater the talents 
of the offender, the greater is his guilt, and the more enduring will be his shame. Whether it be that 
the laws are in themselves iinable to abate an evil of this magnitude, or whether it be that they are 
remissly administered, and with such injustice that the celebrity of an offender serves as a privilege 
whereby he obtains impunity, individuals are bound to consider that such pernicious works would neither 
be published nor written, if they were discouraged as they might, and ought to be, by public feeling: 
every person, therefore, who purchases such books, or admits them into his house, promotes the mischief, 
and thereby, as far as in him lies, becomes an aider and abettor of the crime. 

" The publication of a lascivious book is one of the worst offences which can be committed against the 
well-being of society. It is a sin, to the consequences of which no limits can be assigned, and those con- 
sequences no after-repentance in the writer can counteract. Whatever remorse of conscience he may 
feel when his hour comes (and come it must!) will be of no avail. The poignancy of a death-bed re- 
pentance cannot cancel one copy of the thousands which are sent abroad; and as long as it continues to 
be read, so long is he the pander of posterity, and so long is he heaping up guilt upon his soul in per- 
petual accumulation. 

" These remarks are not more severe than the offence deserves, even when applied to those immoral 
writers who have not been conscious of any evil intention in their writings, who would acknowledge 
a little levity, a little warmth of coloring, and so forth, in that sort of language with which men gloss 
over their favorite vices, and deceive themselves. What then should be said of those for whom the 
thoughtlessness and inebriety of wanton youth can no longer be pleaded, but who have written in sober 
manhood and with deliberate purpose? — Men of diseased hearts and depraved imaginations, who, forming 
a system of opinions to suit their own unhappy course of conduct, have rebelled against the holiest ordi- 
nances of human society, and hating that revealed religion which, with all their efforts and bravadoes, 
they are unable entirely to disbelieve, labor to make others as miserable as themselves, by infecting them 
with a m )ral virus that eats into the soul ! The school which they have set up may properly be called 
the Satanic school; for though their productions breathe the spirit of Belial in their lascivious parts, and 
the spirit of Moloch in those loathsome images of atrocities and horrors which they delight to represent, 
they are more especially characterized by a Satanic spirit of pride and audacious impiety, which still 
betrays the wretched feeling of hopelessness wherewith it is allied. 

" This evil is political as well as moral, for indeed moral and political evils are inseparably connected. 
Truly has it been affirmed by one of our ablest and clearest reasoners, that ' the destruction of govern- 
ments may be proved and deduced from the general corruption of the subjects' manners, as a direct and 
natural cause thereof, by a demonstration as certain as any in the mathematics.' There is no maxim more 
frequently enforced by Machiavelli, than that where the manners of a people are generally corrupted, theie 
the government cannot long subsist, — a truth which all history exemplifies; and there is no means 
whereby that corruption can be so surely and rapidly diffused, as by poisoning the waters of literature. 

" Let rulers of the state look to this, in time! But, to use the words of Southey, if* our physicians 
think the best way of curings disease is to pamper it, — the Lord in mercy prepare the kingdom to 
suffer, what He by miracle only can prevent! ' 

" No apoIo2:y is offered for these remarks. The subject led to them; and the occasion of introducing 
them was willingly taken, because it is the duty of every one, whose opinion may have any influence, to 
expose the drift and aim of those writers who are laboring to subvert the foundations of human virtue 
and of human happiness." 

Byron rejoined as follows : — 

" Mr. Southey, in his pious preface to a poem whose blasphemy is as harmless as the sedition of Wat 
Tyler, because it is equally absurd with that sincere production, calls upon the ' legislature to look to it,' 
as the toleration of such writings led to the French Revolution : }iot such writings as Wat Tyler, but as 
those of the ' Santanic School.' This is not true, and Mr. Southey knows it to be not true. Every 
French writer of any freedom was persecuted; Voltaire and Rousseau were exiles, Marmontel and Did- 
erot were sent to the Bastile, and a perpetual war was waged with the whole class by the existing despot- 
ism. In the next place, the French Revolution was not occasioned by any writings whatsoever, but must 
have occurred had no such writers ever existed. It is the fashion to attribute every thing to the French 
Revolution, and the French Revolution to every thing but its real cause. That cause is obvious — the 
government exacted too much, and the people could neither give nor bear more. Without this, the En- 
cyclopedists might have written their fingers off without the occurrence of a single alteration. And the 
English revolution — (the first, I mean) — what was it occasioned by? The Piiritatts were surely as 
pious and moral as Wesley or his biographer? Acts — acts on the part of government, and not writmgs 
against them, have caused the past convulsions, and are tending to the future. 



232 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 

" I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolutionist: I wish to see the English constitution re- 
stored, and not destroyed. Born an aristocrat, and naturally one by temper, with the greater part of my 
present property in the funds, what have / to gain by a revolution? Perhaps I have more to lose in 
every way than Mr. Southey, with all his places and presents for panegyrics and abuse into the bargain. 
But that a revolution is inevitable, I repeat. The government may exult over the repression of petty 
tumults; these are but the receding waves repulsed and broken for a moment on the shore, while the 
great tide is still rolling on and gaining ground with every breaker. Mr. Southey accuses us of attacking 
the religion of the country; and is he abetting it by writing lives of IVesley ? One mode of worship is 
merely destroyed by another. There never was, nor ever will be, a country without a religion. We 
shall be told of France again: but it was only Paris and a frantic party, which for a moment upheld 
their dogmatic nonsense of theo-philanthropy. The church of England, if overthrown, will be swept 
away by the sectarians and not by the sceptics. People are too wise, too well informed, too certain of 
their own immense importance in the realms of space, ever to submit to the impiety of doubt. There 
may be a few such diffident speculators, like water in the pale sunbeam of human reason, but they are 
very few; and their opinions, without enthusiasm or appeal to the passions, can never gain proselytes — 
unless, indeed, they are persecuted — that, to be sure, will increase any thing. 

" Mr. Southey, with a cowardly ferocity, e.xults over the anticipated ' death-bed repentance ' of the 
objects of his dislike; and indulges himself in a pleasant ' Vision of Judgment,' in prose as well as verse, 
full of impious impudence. What Mr. Southey 's sensations or ours may be in the awful moment of 
leaving this state of existence, neither he nor we can pretend to decide. In common, I presume, with 
most men of any reflection, /have not waited for a ' death-bed ' to repent of many of my actions, not- 
withstanding the 'diibolical pride' which this pitiful renegado in his rancor would impute to those who 
scorn ktm. Whether upon the whole the good or evil of my deeds may preponderate is not for me to 
ascertain; but as my means and opportunities have been greater, I shall limit iny present defence to an 
assertion, (easily proved, if necessary,) that I, ' in my degree,' have done more real good in any one 
given year, since 1 was twenty, than Mr. Southey in the whole course of his shifting and turncoat exist- 
ence. There are several actions to which I can look back with an honest pride, not to be damped by the 
calmness of a hireling. There are others to which I recur with sorrow and repentance; but the only 
act oi my life of which Mr. Southey can have any real knowledge, as it was one which brought me in 
contact with a near connection of his own,i did no dishonor to that connection nor to me. 

" I am not ignorant of Mr. Southey 's calumnies on a different occasion, knowing them to be such, 
which he scattered abroad on his return from Switzerland against me and others: they have done 
him no good in this world; and if his creed be the right one, they will do him less in the next. 
What ///>' death-bed ' maybe, it is not my province to predicate: let him settle with his Maker as I 
must do with mine. There is something at once ludicrous and blasphemous in this arrogant scrib- 
bler of all work sitting down to deal damnation and destruction upon his fellow-creatures, with Wat 
Tyler, the Apotheosis of George the Third, and the Elegy on Martin the regicide, all shuffled 
together in his writing-desk. One of his consolations appears to be a Latin note from a work of a 
Mr. Landor, the author of ' Gebir,' whose friendship for Robert Southey will, it seems, 'be an 
honor to him when the ephemeral disputes and ephemeral reputations of the day are forgotton.'^ I 
for one neither envy him * the friendship,' nor the glory in reversion which is to accrue from it, like 
Mr. Thelusson's fortune in the third and fourth generation. This friendship will probably be as 
memorable as his own epics, which (as I quoted to him ten or twelve years ago in ' English Bards ') 
Porson said 'would be remembered when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, — and not till then.' For 
the present, I leave him." 

Southey replied to this on the 5th of January, 1822, in a letter addressed to the Editor of the London 
Courier, of which we quote all that is of importance: — 

" I come at once to his Lordship's charge against me, blowing away the abuse with which it is frothed, 
and evaporating a strong acid in which it is suspended. The residuum then appears to be, that ' Mr. 
Southey, on his return from Switzerland (in 1817), scattered abroad calumnies, knowhig them to be such, 
against Lord Byron and others.' To this I reply with a direct and positive denial. 

" If I had been told in that country that Lord Byron had turned Turk, or Monk of La Trappe, — that 
he had furnished a harem, or endowed an hospital, I might have thought the account, whichever it had 
been, possible, and repeated it accordingly; passing it, as it had been taken in the small change of con- 
versation, for no more than it was worth. In this manner I might have spoken of him, as of Baron 
Geramb,-' the Green Man,'* the Indian Jugglers, or any oxh&r Jiguraiite of the time being. There was 

1 [Coleridge.] 

- Southey, after quoting in a note to his preface a Latin passage from Mr. Landor, spoke thus of its 
author: — "I will only say in this place that to have obtained his approbation as a poet, and posses'^ed 
his friendship as a man, will be remembered among the honors of my life, when the petty enmities of this 
generation will be forgotten, and its ephemeral reputations shall have passed away." 

■* [Baron Geramb, — a German Jew, who, for some time, excited much public attention in London, by 
the extravagance of his dress. Being very troublesome and menacing in demanding remuneration from 
Government, for a proposal he had made of engaging a body of Croat troops in the service of England, 
he was, in 1812, sent out of the country under the alien act.] 

* [The " Green Man " was a popular afterpiece, so called from the hero, who wore every thing green, 
hat, gloves, etc. etc.] 



APPENDIX TO THE PREFACE. 233 

no reason for any particular delicacy on my part in speaking of his Lordship: and, indeed, I should have 
thought any thing which might be reported of him, would have injured his character as little as the story 
which so greatly annoyed Lord Keeper Guilfurd, that he had ridden a rtiinoceros. He may ride a rhi- 
noceros, and though everybody would stare, no one would wonder. But making no inquiry concerning 
him when I was abroad, because I felt no curiosity, 1 hoard nothing, and had nothing to repeat. When 
I spoke of wonders to my friends and acquaintance on my return, it was of the flying tree at Alpnacht, 
and the Eleven Thousand virgins at Cologne — not of Lord Byron. I sought for no staler subject than 
St. Ursula. 

" Once, and only once, in connection with Switzerland, I have alluded to his Lordship; and as the 
passage was curtailed in the press, I take this opportunity of restoring it. In the ' Quarterly Review,' 
speaking incidentally of the Jungfrau, I said ' it was the scene where Lord Byron's Manfred met the 
Devil and bullied him — though the Devil must have won his cause before any tribunal in this world, or 
the next, if he had not pleaded more feebly for himself than his advocate, in a cause of canonization, 
ever pleaded for him.' 

" With regard to the * others,' whom his Lordship accuses me of calumniating, I suppose he alludes 
to a party of his friends, whose names I found written in the album at Mont-Anvert, with an avowal of 
Atheism annexed in Greek, and an indignant comment, in the same language, underneath it.' Those 
names, with that avowal and the comment, I transcribed in my note-book, and spoke of the circumstance 
on my return. If I had published it, the gentleman in question would not have thought himself slan- 
dered, by having that recorded of him which he has so often recorded of himself. 

" The many opprobrious appellations which Lord Byron has bestowed upon me, I leave as I find 
them, with the praises which he has bestowed upon himself. 

* How easily is a noble spirit discerned 
From harsh and sulphurous matter that ^ies out 
In contumelies, makes a noise, and stinks! ' 

B. JONSON. 

But I am accustomed to such things ; and, so far from irritating me are the enemies who use such weap- 
ons, that, when I hear of their attacks, it is some satisfaction to think they have thus employed the 
malignity which must have been employed somewhere, and could not have been directed against any 
person whom it could possibly molest or injure less. The viper, however venomous in purpose, is 
harmless in effect, while it is biting at the file. It is seldom, indeed, that I wa.^te a word, or a thought, 
upon those who are perpetually assailing me. But abhorring, as I do, the personalities which disgrace 
our current literature, and averse from controversy as I am, both by principle and inclination, I make 
no profession of non-resistance. When the offence and the offender are such as to call for the whip and 
the branding-iron, it has been both seen and felt that I can inflict them. 

" Lord Byron's present exacerbation is evidently produced by an infliction of this kind — not by hear- 
say reports of my conversation, four years ago, transmitted him from England. The cause may be 
found in certain remarks upon the Satanic school of poetry, contained in my pref ice to the ' Vision of 
Judgment.' Well would it be for Lord Byron if he could look back upon any of his writings, with as 
much satisfaction as I shall always do upon what is there said of that flagitious school. Many persons, 
and parents especially, have expressed their gratitude to me for having applied the branding-iron where 
it was so richly deserved. The Edinburgh Reviewer, indeed, with that honorable feeling by which his 
criticisms are so peculiarly distinguished, suppressing the remarks themselves, has imputed them wholly 
to envy on my part. I give him, in this instance, full credit for sincerity: I believe he was equally in- 
capable of comprehending a worthier motive, or of inventing a worse ; and as I have never condescended 
to expose in any instance, his pitiful malevolence, I thank him for having, in this, stripped it bare him- 
self, and exhibited it in its bald, naked, and undisguised deformity. 

" Lord Byron, like his encomiast, has not ventured to bring the matter of those animadversions into 
view. He conceals the fact, that they are directed against the authors of blasphemous and lascivious 
books; against men who, not content with indulging their own vices, labor to make others the slaves of 
sensuality, like themselves; against public panders, who, mingling impiety with lewdness, seek at once 
to destroy the cement of social order, and to carry profanation and pollution into private families, and 
into the hearts of individuals. 

" His Lordship has thought it not unbecoming in him to call me a scribbler of all work. Let the 
word scribbler pass; it is an appellation which will not stick, like that of the Sata?u'c school. But, if a 
scribbler, how am I one oi all work? I will tell Lord Byron what I have jioi scribbled — what kind of 
work I have not done. I have never published libels upon my friends and acquaintance, expressed my 
sorrow for those libels, and called them in during a mood of better mind — and then reissued tiiem,when 
the evil spirit, which for a time had been cast out, had returned and taken possession, with seven others, 
more wicked than himself I have never abused the power, of which every author is in some degree 
possessed, to wound the character of a man, or the heart of a woman. I have never sent into the world 
a book to which I did not dare to affix my name; or which I feared to claim in a court of justice, if it 
were pirated by a knavish bookseller. I have never manufactured furniture for the brothel. None of 
these things have I done; none of the foul work by which literature is perverted to the injury of man- 
kind. My hands are clean ; there is no ' damned spot ' upon them — no taint, which ' all the perfumes 
i)f Arabia will not sweeten.' 

^ [Shelley signed his name, with the addition of i^eos, in this album.] 



234 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



" Of the work which I have done, it becomes me not here to speak save only as relates to the Satanic 
School, and its Coryphaeus, the author of Don Juan.' I have held up that school to public detestation, 
as enemies to the religion, the institutions, and the domestic morals of the country. I have given them 
a designation to ivhich their founder a7id leader answers. I have sent a stone from my sling which 
has smitten their Goliath in the forehead. I have fastened his name upon the gibbet, for reproach and 
ignominy, as long as it shall endure. — Take it down who can! 

" One word of advice to Lord Byron before I conclude. — When he attacks me again, let it be in 
rhyme. For one who has so little command of himself, it will be a great advantage that his temper 
should be obliged to keep tune. And while he may still indulge in the same rankness and virulence of 
insult, the metre will, in some degree, seem to lessen its vulgarity." 

Byron, without waiting for the closing hint of the foregoing letter, had already " attacked" Southey 
" in rhyme." On October i, 1821, he says to Moore, — 

" I have written about sixty stanzas of a poem, in octave stanzas (in the Pulci style, which the fools 
in England think was invented by Whistlecraft — it is as old as the hills, in Italy,) called ' The Vision 
of Judgment,' by Quevedo Redivivus. In this it is my intention to put the said George's Apothesis in a 
Whig point of view, not forgetting the Poet Laureate, for his preface and his other demerits." 

Byron had proceeded some length in the performance thus announced, before Southey's letter to the 
" Courier" fell into his hands. On seeing it, his Lordship's feelings were so excited, that he could not 
wait for revenge in inkshed, but on the instant despatched a cartel of mortal defiance to the Poet Laure- 
ate, through the medium of Mr. Douglass Kinnaird, — to whom he thus writes, February 6, 1822: — 

" I have got Southey's pretended reply: what remains to be done is to call him out. The question is, 
would he come? for, if he would not, the whole thing would appear ridiculous, if I were to take a long 
and expensive journey to no purpose. You must be my second, and, as such, I wish to consult you. I 
apply to you as one well versed in the duello, or monomachie. Of course I shall come to England as 
privately as possible, and leave it (supposing that I was the survivor) in the same manner; having no 
other object which could bring me to that country except to settle quarrels accumulated during my 
absence." 

Mr. Kinnaird, justly appreciating the momentary exacerbation under, which Byron had written the 
challenge which this letter inclosed, and fully aware how absurd the whole business would seem to his 
distant friend after the lapse of such a period as must intervene before the return of post from Keswick 
to Ravenna, put the warlike missive aside; and it never was heard of by Mr. Southey until afier the 
death of its author. Meantime Byron had continued his "attack in rhyme" — and his "Vision of 
Judgment," after ineffectual negotiations with various publishers in London, at length saw the light in 
1822, in the pages of the " Liberal."] 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate : 

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 

So little trouble had been given of late ; 
Not that the place by any means was full, 

But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight " 

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, 

And " a pull altogether," as they say 

At sea — which drew most souls another way. 

n. 

The angels all were singing out of tune. 
And hoarse with having little else to do, 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon. 
Or curb a runaway young star or two. 

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 

Splitting some planet with its playful tail, 

As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 



III. 

The guardian seraphs had retired on high. 
Finding their charges past all care below; 

Terrestrial business filled nought in the sky 
Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 

Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
With such rapidity of vice and woe, 

That he had stripped off both his wings in 
quills, 

And yet was in arrear of human ills. 



His business so augmented of late years, 
That he was forced, against his will, no 
doubt, 

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 
For some resource to turn himself about 

And claim the help of his celestial peers. 
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 



THE VISION OF yUDGMENT. 



235 



By the increased demand for jiis remarks; 
six angels and twelve saints were named his 
clerks. 

V. 
This was a handsome board — at least for 
heaven ; 
And yet they had even then enough to do, 
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 

So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
Each day too slew its thousands six or seven. 

Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 
The page was so besmeared with blood and 
dust. 

VI. 
This by the way ; 'tis not mine to record 
What angels shrink from: even the very 
devil 
On this occasion his own work abhorred. 

So surfeited with the infernal revel : 
Though he himself had sharpened every sword 
It almost quenched his innate thirst of evil. 
(Here Satan's sole good work deserves inser- 
tion — 
'Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) 

VII. 

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 

Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 
And heaven none — they form the tyrant's 
lease. 
With nothing but new names subscribed 
upon't ; 
'Twill one day finish : meantime they increase, 
" With seven heads and ten horns," and all 
in front, 
Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but ours 

are born 
Less formidable in the head than horn. 

VIII. 
In the first year of freedom's second dawn 1 

Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, 
one 
Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 

L"ft him nor mental nor external sun : 
A better farmer ne'er brushed dew from lawn, 

A worse king never left a realm undone ! 
He died — but left his subjects still behind, 
One half as mad — and t'other no less blind. 



He died! — his death made no great stir on 

earth ; 
His burial made some pomp; there was 

profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 



' [George III. died the 29th of January, 1820, — 
a year in which the revolutionary spirit broke out 
all over the south of Europe.] 



Of aught but tears — save thoss shed by 
collusion. 
For these things may be bought at their true 
worth ; 
Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and 

banners. 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 



Formed a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
The fools who flocked to swell or see the 
show, 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 

There throbbed not there a thought which 
pierced the pall ; 
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 

It seemed the mockery of hell to fold 

The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

XI. 

So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to what it )iiust far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
What nature made hirr, at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 

He's dead — and upper earth with him has 
done; 

He's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 

For him, unless he left a German will ; 
But Where's the proctor who will ask his son ? 

In whom his qualities are reigning still. 
Except that household virtue, most uncom- 
mon. 
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

Xlll. 
" God save the king ! " It is a large economy 

In God to save the like ; but if he will 
Be saving, all the better; for not one am I 

Of those who think damnation better still : 
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 

In this small hope of bettering future ill 
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, 
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 

XIV. 

I know this is unpopular ; I know 

"lis blasphemous ; I know one may be 
damned 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 
I know my catechism, I know we are 
crammed 
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 



236 



THE VISION OF yUDOMENT. 



I know that all save England's church have 
shammed, 
And that the other twice two hundred churches 
And synagogues have made a damned bad 
purchase. 

XV. 

God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
God knows, as helpless as the devil can 
wish, 

And not a whit more difificult to damn 

Than is to bring to land a late-hooked fish, 

Or to the butcher to purvey the Iamb ; 
Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish 

As one day will be that immortal fry 

Of almost everybody born to die. 

XVI. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 
And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! there 
came 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 
A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and 
fiame ; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great. 
Which would have made aught save a saint 
exclaim ; 
But he, with first a start and then a wink, 
Said, " There's another star gone out, I think ! " 

XVII. 

But ere he could return to his repose, 

A cherub flapped his right wing o'er his 
eyes — 
At which Saint Peter yawned, and rubbed hi^ 
nose : 
" Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee 
rise ! " 
Waving a goodly wing, which glowed, as 
glows 
An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly 
dyes: 
To which the saint replied, " Well, what's the 

matter ? 
" Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ? " 

XVIII. 

" No," quoth the cherub; " George the Third 
is dead." 
" And who is George the Third ? " replied 
the apostle : 
" W/iai George f what Third?" "The king 
of England," said 
The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to 
jostle 
Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 
Because the last we saw here had a tussle, 
And ne'er would have got into heaven's good 

graces, 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 



" He was, if I remember, king of France ; 1 
That head of his, which could not keep a 
crown 

On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 
A claim to those of martyrs — like my own : 

If I had had my sword, as I had once 

When I cut ears off, I had cut him down ; 

But having but my keys, and not my brand, 

I only knocked his head from out his hand. 



"And then he set up such a headless howl. 
That all the saints came out and took him in ; 

And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
That fellow Paul — the parvenu ! The skin 

Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
In heaven, and upon earth redeemed his sin 

So as to make a martyr, never sped 

Better than did this weak and wooden head. 

XXI. 

" But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to 
tell: 

The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 

And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 

And seems the custom here to overthrow 

Whatever has been wisely done below." 

XXII. 

The angel answered, " Peter ! do not pout : 
The king who comes has head and all entire, 

And never knew much what it was about — 
He did as doth the puppet — by its wire. 

And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt : 
My business and your own is not to inquire 

Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 

Which is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIII. 
While thus they spake, the angelic caravan. 

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or 
Inde, 
Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an 
old man 
W^ith an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV. 
But bringing up the rear of this bright host 

A Spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some 
coast 



[Louis XVI., guillotined in January, 1793.J 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



237 



Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is 
paved ; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest- 
tossed ; 
Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face, 
And xvhere he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to be entered more by him or sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 

He pattered with his keys at a grqat rate, 
And sweated through his apostolic skin: 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddled all together. 

Like birds when soars the falcon ; and thev 
felt 
A tingling to the tip of every feather. 

And formed a circle like Orion's belt 
Around their poor old charge ; who scarce 
knew whither 
His guards had led him, though they gently 
dealt 
With royal manes (for by many stories, 
And true, we learn the angels all are Tories). 

XXVII. 

As things were in this posture, the gate flew 

Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
Flung over space an universal hue 

Of many-colored flame, until its tinges 
Reached even our speck of earth, and made a 
new 
Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice- 
bound, 
By Captain Parry's crew, in Melville's 
Sound." 1 

XXVIII. 

And from the gate thrown open issued beam- 
ing 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 
Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing 
fight: 
My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 



I [" I believe it is almost impossible for words to 
give an idea of the beauty and variety which this 
magnificent phenomenon displayed. The luminous 
arc'i had broken into irregular masses, streaming 
with much rapidity in different directions, varying 
continually in shape and interest, and extending 
themselves from north, by the east, to north. The 
usual pale light of the aurora strongly resembled 
that produced by the combustion of phosphorus ; a 
very slight tinge of red was noticed on this occasion, 
when the aurora was most vivid, but no other colors 
were visible." — Parry's Voyage in 1819-20.] 



With earthly likenesses, for here the night 
Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving, 
Johanna Southcote,- or Bob Southey raving. 

XXIX. 
'Twas the archangel Michael : all men know 

The make of angels and archangels, since 
There's scarce a scribbler has not one to 
show, 

From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. 
There also are some altar-pieces, though 

I really can't say that they much evince 
One's inner notions of immortal spirits; 
But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 

XXX. 

Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise ; the portal past — he stood ; 

Before him the young cherubs and saints 
hoary — 
(I S'a.y young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years; and should be very 
sorry 
To state, they were not older than St. Peter, 
But merely that they seemed a little sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saints bowed down be- 
fore 

That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Maker's service, 
durst 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

XXXII. 

He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 
They knew each other both for good and 
ill; 
Such was their power, that neither could forget 

His former friend and future foe ; but still 
There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
In cither's eye, as if 'twere less their will 
Than destiny to make the eternal years 
Their date of war, and their " champ clos " the 
spheres. 

XXXIII. 
But here they were in neutral space : we know 
From Job that Satan hath the power to pay 
A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
And that " the sons of God," like those of 
clay, 
Must keep him company ; and we might show 



^ [Johanna Southcote, the aged lunatic, who fan- 
cied herself, and was believed by many followers, 
to be with child of a new Messiah, died in 1815.J 



'ISS 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 



From the same book, in how polite a way 
The dialogue is held between the Powers 
Of Good and Evil —but 'twould take up hours. 

XXXIV. 
And this is not a theologic tract, 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic 
If Job be allegory or a fact, 

But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 
From out the whole but such and such an act 

As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 
'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 
And accurate as any other vision. 

XXXV. 
The spirits were in neutral space, before 
The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds 
is 
The place where Death's grand cause is argued 
o'er. 
And souls despatch to that world or to this ; 
And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect: though they did not kiss. 
Yet still between his Darkness and his Bright- 
ness 
There passed a mutual glance of great polite- 
ness. 

XXXVI. 

The Archangel bowed, not like a modern beau, 
But with a graceful oriental bend, 

Pressing one radiant arm just where below 
The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 

He turned as to an equal, not too low, 
But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 

With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 

Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXXVII. 
He merely bent his diabolic brow 

An instant; and then raising it, he stood 
In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
Cause why King George by no means could 
or should 
Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
Eternal, more than other kings, endued 
With better sense and hearts, whom history 

mentions. 
Who long have " paved hell with their good 
intentions." 

XXXVIII. 

Michael began : " What wouldst thou with 
this man. 
Now dead, and brought before the^Lord ? 
What ill 
Hath he wrought since his mortal race began. 
That thou canst claim him? Speak! and 
do thy will. 
It it be just : if in this earthly span 

lie hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
His duties as a king and mortal, say. 
And he is thine ; if not, let him have way." 



XXXIX. 

" Michael ! " replied the Prince of Air, " even 
here 

Before the gate of him thou servest, must 
I claim my subject: and will make appear 

That as he was mv worshipper in dust, 
So shall he be in spirit, although dear 

To thee and thine, because nor wine nor 
lust 
Were of his weaknesses; yet on the throne 
He reigned o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 

" Look to our earth, or rather mine ; it was. 
Once, more kY^"^ master's: but I triumph not 

In this poor planet's conquest : nor, alas ! 
Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 

With all the myriads of bright worlds which 
pass 
In worship round him, he may have forgot 

Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 

I think few worth damnation save their 
kings, — 

XLI. 

"And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
Assert my right as lord; and even liad 

I such an inclination, 'twere (as you 

Well know) superfluous: they are grown 
so bad. 

That hell has nothing better left to do 

Than leave them to themselves : so much 
more mad 

And evil by their own internal curse, 

Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 



" Look to the earth, I said, and say again: 
When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, 
poor worm 
Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 
The world and he both wore a different form. 
And much of earth and all the watery plain 
Of ocean called him king: through many a 
storm 
His isles had floated on the abyss of time; 
For the rough virtues chose them for their 
clime. 

XLIII. 

" He came to his sceptre young; he leaves it 
old: 
Look to the state in which he found his 
realm, 
And left it ; and his annals too behold. 

How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 
How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 
The beggar's vice, which can but over- 
whelm 
The meanest hearts; and for the rest, but 

glance 
Thine eye long America and France, 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



239 



XLIV. 
" 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last 

(I have the workmen safe) ; but as a tool 
So let him be consuiiied. From out the past 
Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amassed 
Of sin and slaughter — from the Ccesars' 
school, 
Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 
More drenched with gore, more cumbered 
with the slain. 

XLV. 
" He ever warred wjth freedom and the free : 
Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
So that they uttered the word ' Liberty ! ' 
Found George the Third their first opponent. 
Whose 
History was ever stained as his will be 
With national and individual woes ? 
I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs 
want ; 

XLVI. 
" I know he was a constant consort ; own 

He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 

As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 
Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown, 

I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
And this was well for him, but not for those 
Millions who found him what oppression 
chose. 

XLVII. 

"The New World shook him off; the Old 

yet groans 

Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 

Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 

To all his vices, without what begot 

Compassion for him — his tame virtues; 

drones 

Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 

A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 

Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them quake ! 

XLVIII. 
" Five millions of the primitive, who hold 

The faith which makes ye great on earth, 
implored 
Apart of that vast all they held of old, — 

Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 
Michael, but you, and you. Saint Peter ! Cold 

Must be your souls, if you have not abhorred 
The foe to catholic participation 
In all the license of a Christian nation. 



" True ! he allowed them to pray God ; but as 

A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
Which would have placed them upon the 
same base 



With those who did not hold the saints in 
awe." 
But here Saint Peter started from his place. 
And cried, "You may the prisoner witli- 
draw : 
Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 
While I am guard, may 1 be damned myself! 



" Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
My office (and his is no sinecure) 

Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 
The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure ! " 

" Saint ! " replied Satan, " you do well to 
avenge 
The wrongs he made your satellites endure ; i 

And if to this exchange you should be given, 

I'll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI. 

Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and 
devil ! 
Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter 1 you were wont to be more' civil : 
Satan ! excuse this warmth of his expression. 
And condescension to the vulgar's level : 
Even saints somedmes forget themselves in 
session. 
Have you got more to say ? " — " No. " — " If 

you please, 
I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 

Lll. 

Then Satan turned and waved his swarthy 
hand. 

Which stirred with its electric qualities 
Clouds further off than we can understand. 

Although we find him sometimes in our 
skies ; 
Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 

In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 
As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 

LIII. 

This was a signal unto such damned souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 
Extended far beyond the mere controls 
Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no 
station 
Is theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of hell assigned ; but where their inclination 
Or business carries them in search of game, 
They may range freely — being damned the 
same, 

LIV. 

They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 



[George III.'s opposition to the Cathglic claims.] 



240 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Stuck in their loins ; i or like to an " entre " 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 

I borrow my comparisons from clay, 

Being clay myselt. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses ; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 
When the great signal ran from heaven to 
hell — 
About ten million times the distance reck- 
oned 
From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 

How much time it takes up, even to a second. 
For every ray that travels to dispel 

The fogs of London, through which, dimly 
beaconed, 
The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year. 
If that the summer is not too severe : — ^ 

LVI. 
I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute : 

I know the solar beams take up more time 
Ere, packed up for their journey, they begin it ; 

But then their telegraph is less sublime, 
And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own 
clime. 
The sun takes up some years for every ray 
To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 

LVI I. 
Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of half-a-crown, a little speck appeared 

(I've seen a something like it in the skies 

In the ^-Egean, ere a squall) ; it neared 

And growing bigger, took another guise ; 

Like an aerial ship it tacked, and steered. 
Or was steered (I am doubtful of the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza 
stammer ; — 

LVIII. 
But take your choice) ; and then it grew a 
cloud ; 
And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 
Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw 
these ; 
They shadowed with their myriads space ; 
their loud 
And varied cries were like those of wild geese 
(If nations may be likened to a goose), 
And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose. " 



Here crashed a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
Who damned away his eyes as heretofore : 



^ [A gold or gilt key, peeping from below the 
skirts of the coat, marks a lord chamberlain.] 

2 [An allusion to Horace Walpole's expression 
in a letter — " the summer has set in with its nsiial 
severity P\ 



There Paddy brogued "By Jasus ! " — ■ 
" What's your wuU ? " 
The temperate Scot exclaimed : the French 
ghost swore 
In cert.iin terms I sha'n't translate in full. 
As the first coachman will ; and 'midst the 
war. 
The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
" Our president is going to war, I guess. " 

LX. 
Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and 
Dane ; 
In short, an universal shoal of shades. 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 
Of all climes and professions, years and 
trades. 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 
Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
All summoned by this grand "subpoena," to 
Try if kings mayn't be damned like me or you. 

LXI. 
When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 

As angels can ; next, like Italian twiliglit. 
He turned all colors — as a peacock's tail. 

Or sunset streaming through a Gothic sky- 
light 
In some old abbey, or a trout not stale. 

Or distant lightning on the horizon Z;)/ night, 
Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 

LXII. 
Then he addressed himself to Satan : " Why — 

My good old friend, for such I deem you, 
though 
Our different parties make us fight so shy, 

I ne'er mistake you for 2l personal foe ; 
Our difference is political, and I 

Trust that, whatever may occur below. 
You know my great respect for you : and this 
Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 

LXiir. 
" Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 

My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 
That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 

*Tis even superfluous, since two honesi, 
clean. 
True testimonies are enough : we lose 

Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
The accusation and defence : if we 
Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality." 

LXIV. 
Satan replied, " To me the matter is 

Indifferent, in a personal point of view: 
I can have fifty better souls than this 

With far less trouble than we have gone 
through 
Already ; and I merely argued his 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



241 



Late majesty of Britain's case with you 
Upon a point of form : you may dispose 
Of him ; I've kings enough below, God 
knows! " 

LXV. 

Thus spoke the Demon (late called " multi- 
faced" 
By multo-scribblingSouthey). " Then we'll 
call 
One or two persons of the myriads placed 

Around our congress, and dispense with all 

The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may be so 

graced 

As to speak first ? there's choice enough — 

who shall 

It be ? " Then Satan answered, " There are 

many ; 
But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as 
any." 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious looking sprite 
Upon the instant started from the throng. 

Dressed in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world ; where unite 
All the costumes since Adam's, right or 
wrong, 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 



The spirit looked around upon the crowds 
Assembled, and exclaimed. " My friends of 
all 

The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these 
clouds ; 
So let's to business : why this general call ? 

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds. 
And 'tis for an election that they bawl. 

Behold a candidate with unturned coat ! 

Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ? " 

LXVIII. 

"Sir," replied Michael, "you m>?tike; these 
things 
Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august ; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met : so now you know." 
" Then I presume those gentlemen with 
wings," 
Said Wilkes, " are cherubs ; and that soul 
below 
Looks much like George the Third, but to my 

mind 
A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind ? " 

LXIX. 

" He is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 
" If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 



Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 
To lift itself against the loftiest." — "Some," 
Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid in 
lead. 
For such a liberty — and I, for one. 
Have told them what I thought beneath the 
sun." 

LXX. 
" Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
To urge against him," said the Archangel. 
" Why," 
Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past. 

Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 
Besides, I beat him hollow at the last. 

With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 
I don't like ripping up old stories, since 
His conduct was but natural in a prince, 

LXXI. 

" Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling; 

But then I blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be un- 
willing 

To see him punished heie for their excess. 
Since they were both damned long ago, and 
still in 

Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 

And vote his ' habeas corpus' into heaven." 

LXXII. 

" Wilkes," said the Devil, " I understand all 
this ; 

You turned to half a courtier ere you died.i 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon's ferry; you forget that his 

Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide. 
He won't be sovereign more : you've lost your 

labor, 
For at the best he will but be your neighbor. 

LXXIII. 
" However, I knew what to think of it, 

When I beheld you in your jesting way 
Flitting and whispering round about the spit 

Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 
With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 
That fellow even in hell breathes further ills ; 
I'll have him gagged — 'twas one of his own 
bills. 

LXX IV. 

" Call Junius 1 " From the crowd a shadow 
stalked, 
And at the name there was a general squeeze, 



' [For the political history of John Wilkes, who 
died chamberlain of the city of London, we must 
refer to any history of the reign of George III. 
His profligate personal character is abundantly dis- 



242 



THE VISION OP JUDGMENT. 



So that the very ghosts no longer walked 

In comfort, at their own aerial ease, 
But were all rammed, and jammed, (but to be 
balked, 
As we shall see), and jostled hands and 
knees. 
Like wind compressed and pent within a blad- 
der, 
Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

LXXV. 
The shadow came — a tall, thin, gray-haired 
figure. 
That looked as it had been a shade on earth ; 
Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor, 

But nought to mark its breeding or its birth : 
Now it waxed little, then again grew bigger. 

With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth ; 
But as you gazed upon its features, they 
Changed every instant — to what, none could 
say. 

LXXVI. 
The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
Could they distinguish whose the features 
were ; 
The Devil himself seemed puzzled even to 
guess ; 
They varied like a dream — now here, now 
there ; 
And several people swore from out the press. 
They knew him perfectly; and one could 
swear 
He was his father : upon which another 
Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother : 

LXXVII. 

Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife ; i but the wight 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 

He stood, the puzzle only was increased ; 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin.2 

LXXVIII. 

The moment that you had pronounced him 
one, 
Presto ! his face changed, and he was 
another; 
And when that change was hardly well put on. 
It varied, till I don't think his own mother 



played in the i:Dllection of his letters, published by 
his daughter ! since his death.] 

1 [Among the vnrious persons to whom the I^ticr'^ 
of liinius liave been attributed we find the Duke of 
Portland, Lord George Sackville, Sir Philip Francis, 
Mr. Burke, Mr. Dunning, the Rev. John Home 
Tooke, Mr. Hugh Boyd, Dr. Wilmot, etc.] 

2 [" I don't know what to think. Why should 
Junius be dead? If suddenly apoplexed, would he 



(If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to 

t'other; 
Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 
At this epistolary " Iron Mask." 3 

LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 

" Three gentlemen at once " (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop) ; then you might deem 

That he was not even 07ie ; now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick 

steam 

Hid him from sight — like fogs on London 

days. 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's 

fancies. 
And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.* 

LXXX. 

I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer. 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown : 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear! 
'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI. 

I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and book^, we 
see, ' 

Are filled as well without the latter too : 

And really till we fix on somebody 

For certain sure to claim them as his due. 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will 
bother 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

" And who and what art thou ? " the Archangel 
said. 
" For that you may consult my title-page," 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 
" If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it now." — " Canst thou up- 
braid," 



rest in his grave without sending his e'iSojAoi' to 
shout in the ears of posterity, ' Junius was X. Y. Z. , 
Esq. buried in the parish of *****.' Repair his 
monument, ye churchwardens ! Print a new edition 
of his Letters, ye booksellers! Impossible, — the 
man 7n7ist be alive, and will never die without the 
disclosure. I like him; — he was a good hater." — 
Byrcni^s Diary, Nov. 23, 1813.] 

^ [The mystery of " I'homme au masque de fer," 
the everlasting puzzle of the last century, has in the 
opinion of some, been cleared up, by a French work 
published in 1825, and which formed the basis of 
an entertaining one in English by Lord Dover.] 

* [That the work entitled " The Identity of Junius 
with a distinguished Living Character established " 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



243 



Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
Aught further ? " Junius answered, " You had 

better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter : 

LXXXIII. 
" My charges upon record will outlast 

The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 
" Repent'st thou not," said Michael, " of some 
past 
Exaggeration ? something which may doom 
Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou wast 
Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 
Of passion ? " — " Passion ! " cried the phan- 
tom dim, 
" I loved my country, and I hated him. 

LXXXIV. 

" What I have written, I have written ; let 

The rest be on his head or mine ! " So spoke 
Old " Nominis Umbra ; " i and while speaking 
yet. 
Away he melted in a celestial smoke. 
Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget 
To call George Washington, and John 
Home Tooke, 
And Franklin ; " — but at this time there was 

heard 
A cry for room, though not a phantom stirred. 

LXXXV. 
At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 

Of cherubim appointed to that post. 
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 

His way, and looked as if his journey cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 

" What's this ? " cried Michael ; " why, 'tis 
not a ghost ? " 
" I know it," quoth the incubus; "but he 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXVI. 
" Confound the renegado ! I have sprained 

My left wing, he's so heavy ; one would think 
Some of his works about his neck were 
chained. 
But to the point ; while hovering o'er the 
brink 
Of Skiddaw2 (where as usual it still rained), 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 



proves Sir Philip Francis to be Junius, we will not 
affirm; but this we can safely assert, that it accu- 
mulates such a mass of circumstantial evidence, as 
renders it extremely difticiilt to believe he is not, 
and that, if so many coinciderv:es shall be found to 
have misled us in this case, our faith in all conclu- 
sions drawn from proofs of a similar kind may 
henceforth be shaken. — MackuUosh.'] 

1 [The well known motto of Junius is, " stat 
nominis uvtbra.'"\ 

- [Southey's residence was on the shore of Der- 
wentwater, near the mountain Skiddaw.] 



And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 
No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVI I. 
" The former is the devil's scripture, and 

The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 
Belongs to all of us, you understand. 

I snatched him up just as you sec him there, 
And brought him off for sentt-nce out of hand : 

Fve scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 
At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 



Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 
And have expected him for some time here ; 

A sillier fellow 3'ou will scarce behold, 
Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 
Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus 
dear : 

We had the poor wretch safe (without being 
bored 

With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 
" But since he's here, let's see what he has 
done." 
" Done 1 " cried Asmodeus, " he anticipates 
The very business you are now upon. 

And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 
Who knows to what his ribaldry may run. 
When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, 
prates ? " 
" Let's hear," quoth Michael, "what he has to 

say : 
You know we're bound to that in everyway." 

xc. 
Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 

By no means often was his case below. 
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 

His voice into that awful note of woe 
To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow ; 
But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 
Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 



But ere the spavined dactyls could be spurred 

Into recitative, in great dismay 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through tlieir long array ; 
And Michael rose ere he couid get a word 

Of all his foundered verses under way. 
And cried, " For God's sake stop, my friend! 

'twere best — 
Xon Di, non homines — you know the rest." 3 

2 [Mediocribus esse poetis 
Non Di, non homines, non concessere columnae. 

Horace.\ 



244 



THE VISION OF yUDGMENT. 



XCII. 
A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
Which seemed to hold all verse in detesta- 
tion ; 
The angels had of course enough of song 
When upon service ; and the generation 
Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 

Before, to profit by a new occasion ; 
The monarch, mute till then, exclaimed, 

" What ! what ! i 
Pye 2 come again ? No more — no more of 
. that ! " 

XCIII. 
The tumult grew ; an universal cough 

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
When Castlereagh has been up long enough 

(Before he was first minister of state, 
I mean — the slaves hear now) ; some cried 
" Off, off! " 
As at a farce ; till, grown quite desperate. 
The bard Saint Peter prayed to interpose 
(Himself an author) only for his prose. 

xciv. 
The varlet was not an ill-favored knave ; 
A good deal like a vulture in the face. 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which 
gave 
A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather 
grave. 
Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
But that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
Quite a poetic felony " de se." 

xcv. 
Then Michael blew his trump, and stilled 
the noise 
With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
On earth besides ; except some grumbling 
voice, 
Which now and then will make a slight in- 
road 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrowed ; 
And now the bard could plead his own bad 

cause. 
With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

XCVI. 
He said — (I only give the heads) — he said. 
He meant no harm in scribbling ; 'twas his 
way 
Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides, his bread. 



^ [The king's trick of repeating his words in this 
•way was a fertile source of ridicule to Peter Pindar 
(Dr. Wolcot).] 

- [Henry James Pye, the predecessor of Southey 
in the poet-laureateship, died in 1813. He was the 
author of many works besides his official Odes, 
among others " Alfred," an epic poem. Pye was 



Of which he buttered both sides ; 'twould 
delay 
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to 
dread). 
And take up rather more time than a day, 
To name his works — he would but cite a 

few — 
"Wat Tyler" — "Rhymes on Blenheim" — 
" Waterloo." 

XCVI I. 

He had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings what- 
ever ; 
He had written for republics far and wide. 

And then against them bitterer than ever : 
For pantisocracy he once had cried 
Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas 
clever ; 
Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
Had turned his coat — and would have 
turned his skin. 

XCVIII. 

He had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory ; he had 
called 
Reviewing 3 " the ungentle craft," and then 

Become as base a critic as e'er crawled — 
Fed, paid, and pampered by the very men 
By whom his muse and morals had been 
mauled : 
He had written much blank verse, and blanker 

prose. 
And more of both than anybody knows.'* 



He had written Wesley's life : — here turning 
round 
To Satan, " Sir, I'm ready to write yours. 
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound. 
With notes and preface, all that most 
allures 
The pious purchaser ; and there's no ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own re- 
viewers : 



a man of good family in Berkshire, sat some time 
in parliament, and was eminently respectable in 
every thing but his poetry.] 

3 See " Life of Henry Kuke White." 
* [This sarcasm about Southey 's professional 
authorship comes with a bad grace from a man 
who, for several years, has been in the habit of re- 
ceiving several thousand pounds per annum, all for 
value received in Verse and Prose, from the mag- 
nificent exchequer of- Albemarle Street. V/hat right 
has Lord Byron to sneer at Southey as a " writer of 
all work?"' Has he not himself published, within 
these two years, two volumes of tragic blank verse; 
one volume of licentious otta7'a rivta ; one pam- 
phlet of clever polemical criticism, seasoned with 
personalities against all sorts of men; besides writ- 
ing an Armenian grammar.'' — Blackwood, 1822. J 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



245 



So let me have the proper documents, 
That I may add you to. my other saints." 

C. 

Satan bowed, and was silent. " Well, if you. 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be rendered more 
divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 



" But talking about trumpets, here's my 
Vision 1 
Now vou shall judge, all people ; yes, you 
shal'l 
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
I settle all these things by intuition. 
Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, 
and all. 
Like King Alfonso, i When I thus see double, 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 



He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 
Persuasion on the part of deviis, or saints. 
Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 

He read the first three lines of the contents ; 
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 

Had vanished, with variety of scents. 
Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang. 
Like lightning, off from his " melodious 
twang." 2 

cm. 
Those grand heroics acted as a spell ; 
The angels stopped their ears and plied 
their pinions; 
The devils ran howling, deafened, down to 
hell ; 
The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own 
dominions — 
(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell. 
And I leave every man to his opinions) ; 
Michael took refuge in his trump — but, lo I 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow I 



^ Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolomean system, 
said, that " had he been consulted at the creation of 
the,world, he would have spared the Maker some 
absurdities." 

* See Aubrey's account of the apparition which 
disappeared " with a curious perfume and a most 
melodious twang;" or see the "Antiquary,^' 
vol. ■;. p. 225. — ["As the vision shut liis volume, 
a strain Oif delightf^il jhhsic seemed to fill the apart- 
ment." — " The usual time," says Gro--e. " at which 
ghosts make their appearance is midnight, and sel- 
dom before it is dark ; though some audacious spirits 
have beon said to appear even by day-light; but of 



CIV. 

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
For an impetuous saint, upraised his l^eys, 

And at the fifth line knocked the poet down ; 
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease. 

Into his lake, for there he did not drown ; 
A different web being by the Destinies 

Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, when- 
e'er 

Reform shall happen either here or there. 

cv. 

He first sank to the bottom — like his works. 

But soon rose to the surface — like himself; 

For all corrupted things are buoyed like corks.^ 

By their own rottenness, light as an elf. 
Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks. 

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 
In his own den, to scrawl some " Life " or 

" Vision," -i 
As Welborn says — " the devil turned precis- 
ian." 

cvi. 

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 



this there are few instances, and those mostly ghosts 
who had been laid, and whose terms of confinement 
were expired. I cannot learn that ghosts carry 
tapers in their hands, as they are sometimes de- 
picted. Dragging chains is not the fashion of 
English ghosts: chains and black vestments being 
chiefly the accoutrements of foreign spectres seen 
in arbitrary governments; dead or alive, English 
spirits are free. During the narration of its busi- 
ness, a ghost must by no means be interrupted by 
questions of any kind: its narration being com- 
pleted, it vanishes away, frequently in a flash of 
light; in which case, some ghosts have been so 
considerate as to desire the party to whom they 
appeared to shut their eyes: — sometimes its depart- 
ure is attended with most delightfiil tnusic."' — 
Provincial Glossary.] 

^ A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten; 
it then floats, as most people know. 

* [Southey's Vision of Judgment appears to us 
to be an ill-judged, and not a well-executed work. 
Milton alone has ever founded a fiction on the basis 
of revelation, without degrading his subject; but 
Milton has been blamed by the most judicious 
critics, and his warmest admirers, for expressing 
the counsels of Eternal Wisdom, and the decrees of 
Almighty Power, by words assigned to the Deit)'. 
It is impossible to deceive ourselves into a momen- 
tary and poetical belief that words proceeded from 
the Holy Spirit, except on the warrant of inspira- 
tion itself. It is here only that Milton fails, and 
here Milton sometimes shocks. The blasphemies 
of Milton's devils offend not a pious car, because 
they are devils who utter them. Nor are we dis- 
pleased with the poet's presumption in feigning 
language for heavenly spirits, because it is a lan- 
guage that lifts the soul to heaven. The words are 
human ; but the truths they exprtrss. and the doc- 
trines they teach, are divine. — Blackwood, 1832.] 



246 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



Which kept my optics free from all delusion, 
And showed me what I in my turn have 
shown. 
All I -saw further, in the last confusion, 



Was, that King George slipped into heaven 
for one ; 
And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 
I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE; 

OR, 

CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 

" Impar Congressus Achilli." 



[This poem was written at Genoa, in the early part of the year 1823; and published in London, by 
Mr. John Hunt. Its authenticity was much disputed at the time.] 



I. 
The "good old times " — all times when old 

are good — 
Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 
Gr^at things have been, and are, and greater 

still 
Want little of mere mortals but their will : 
A wider space, a greener field, is given 
To those who play their " tricks before high 

heaven." 
I know not if the angels weep, but men 
Have wept enough — for what? — to weep 

again ! 

II. 
All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
Reader! remember when thou wert a lad. 
Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much. 
His very rival almost deemed him such.i 
We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flowed all free. 
As the deep billows of the .Egean roar 
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 
But where are they — the rivals 1 — a few feet 



[ Mr. Fox used to say 
Pitt never wants the word 



/ never want a word, 
] 



Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet.2 
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave 
Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave 
Which oversweeps the world. The theme is 

old 
Of " dust to dust ; " but half its tale untold : 
Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its 

form, 
Varied above, but still alike below ; 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. 
Though Cleopatra's mumtny cross the sea 
O'er which from empire she lured Anthony; 
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
On shores he wept to conquer, though un- 
known — 
How vain, how worse than vain, at length ap- 
pear 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear! 
He wept for worlds to -conquer — half \he 

earth 
Knows not his name, or but his death, and 

birth, 
And desolation ; while his native Greece 
Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 



- [The grave of Mr. Fox, in Westminster Abbey, 
is within eighteen inches of that of Mr. Pitt.] 



THE AGE OF BRONZE, 



247 



H( 



wept for worlds to conquer ! " he who 



ne'ei 



Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 
Which holds his urn, and never knew his 
throne. 1 

iir. 

But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw 

his car ; 
The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings,2 
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with 

wings, 
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawled 

of late. 
Chained to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? 
Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild ? 
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes 

were thrones ? 
Whose table earth — whose dice were human 

bones ? 
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle,3 
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile, 
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
Smile to survey the queller of the nations 
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines. 
O'er curtailed dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings ? 
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
A surgeon's-^ statement, and an earl's 5 ha- 
rangues ! 
A bust delayed,^ a book refused, can shake 
The sleep of him who kept the world awake." 
Is this indeed the tamer of the great, 
Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
The paltry gaoler^ and the prying spy. 
The staring stranger with his note-book nigh ? ^ 
Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great ; 
How low, how littie was this middle state, 
Between a prison and a palace, where 
How few could feel for what he had to bear ! 
Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill. 
His food and wine were doled out dulv still : 



1 [The sarcophagus, of breccia, which is supposed 
to have contained the dust of Alexander, came into 
the possession of the English army, at the capitula- 
tion of Alexandria in 1802, and is now in the British 
Museum.] 

- [Sesosiris is said, by Diodorus, to have had his 
chariot dnuvn by eight vanquished sovereigns.! 
• :Sl. Hdena.] 

"Mr. Barry O'Meara.] 

Earl Bathurst.] 

The bust of his son.] 

^Sir Hudson Lowe.] 

Captain Bnsi! Hall's interesting account of his 
interview with the ex-emperor occurs in his " Voy- 
age to r,o-.--h-.n."| 



Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 
So free from homicide — to doubt's a crime ; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintained his 

cause. 
Hath lost his place, and gained the world's 

applause. 
But smile — though all the pangs of brain 

and heart 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
Though, save the few fond friends and imaged 

face 
Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace. 
None stand by his low bed — though even the 

mind 
Be wavering, which long awed and awes 

mankind : 
Smile — for the fettered eagle breaks his chain, 
And higher worlds than this are his again.'-* 

IV. 
How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign. 
How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
The little that he was and sought to be ! 
What though his name a wider empire found 
Than his ambition, though with scarce a 

bound; 
Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, 
He tasted empire's blessings and its curse ; 
Though kings rejoicing in their late escape 
From chains,wouldgiadlybe//2^/rtyrant's ape ; 
How must he smile, and turn to yon lone 

grave. 
The proudest sea-mark that o'erf ops the wave ! 
VVliat though his gaoler, duteous to the last. 
Scarce deemed the coffin's lead could keep 

him fast. 
Refusing one poor line along the lid. 
To date the birth and death of all it hid; 
That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
A talisman to all save him who bore : 
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast ; 
When Victory's Gallic colunin shall but rise. 
Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 
The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 
Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust. 
And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 
Do more than niggard envy still denies. 
But what are these to him ? Can glory's lust 
Touch the freed spirit or the fettered dust ? 
Small care hath he of what his tomb consists ; 
Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists: 
Alike the better-seeing shade will smile 
On the rude cavern of the rocky isle. 
As if his ashes found their latest home 
In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 
He wants not this; but France shall feel the 

want 
Of this last con.solation, though so scant ; 



" [Buonapr.rte died the 5th of May, i8ai.] 



248 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



Her honor, fame, and faith demand his bones, 
To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 
Or carried onward' in the battle's van, 
To form, like Guesclin's i dust, her talisman. 
But be it as it is — the time may come 
His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's 
drum.- 

V. 

Oh heaven ! of whieh he was in power a feat- 
ure ; 
Oh Earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 
Thou isle ! to be remembered long and well, 
That saw'st the untiedged eaglet chip his 

shell ! 
Ye Alps, which viewed him in his dawning 

flights 
Hover, the victor of a hundred fights 1 
Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds 

outdone 1 
Alas ! why passed he too the Rubicon — 
The Rubi'con of man's awakened rights. 
To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 
Egypt ! from whose all dat-eless tombs arose 
Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
And shook wdthin their pyramids to hear 
A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; 
While the dark shades of furty ages stood 
Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood; 
Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell. 
With clashing hosts, who strewed the barren 

sand 
To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 
Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 
Austria ! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 
Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall I 
Ye race of Frederic ! — Frederics but in name 
And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 
Who, crushed at Jena, crouched at Berlin, fell 
First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who dwell 
Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody 

debt 1 
Poland — o'er which the avenging angel past, 
But left thee as he found thee, still a waste. 
Forgetting all thy still enduring claim. 
Thy lotted people and extinguished name. 
Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear. 



1 [Guesclin, constable of France, died in the 
midst of his triumphs, before Chateauneuf de Ran- 
don, in 1380. The English garrison, which had 
conditioned to surrender at a certain time, marched 
out the day after his death; and the commander re- 
spectfully laid the keys of the fortress on the bier, 
so that it might appear to have surrendered to his 
ashes.] 

2 [John Ziska — a distinguished leader of the 
Hussites. It is recorded of him, that, in dying, he 
ordered his skin to be made the covering of a drum. 
The Bohemians hold his memory in superstitious 
veneration, j 



That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear — 
Kosciusko! On — on — on — the thirst of 

war 
Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar. 
The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 
Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets! 
Moscow ! thou limit of his long career, 
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen 

tear 
To see in vain — he saw thee — how? with 

spire 
And palace fuel to one common fire. 
To this the soldier lent his kindling match. 
To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 
To this the merchant flung his hoarded 

store. 
The prince his hall — and Moscow was no 

more ! 
Sublimest of volcanoes ! Etna's flame 
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's 

tame ; 
Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 
For gaping tourists, from his hackneyed 

height : 
Thou stand'st alone unrivalled, till the fire 
To come, in which all empires shall expire ! 

Thou other element! as strong and stern. 
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn ! — 
Whose icy wing flapped o'er the faltering foe, 
Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
How" did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
Pierce, till hosts perished with a single pang! 
In vain shall .Seine look up along his banks 
For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ! 
In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
Her youth — their blood flows faster than her 

wines ; 
Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
In frozen mvmimies on the Polar plains. 
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
Her offspring chilled; its beams are now for- 
saken. 
Of all the trophies gathered from the war. 
What shall return ? — the conqueror's broken 

car ! 
The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory ,3 
Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 
Before their sovereign, — sovereign as before ; 
But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, 
And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquished 

yield ; 
The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 
To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox'sguide ; 
And backward to the den of his despair 
The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! 



3 [Gustavus Adolphus fell at the great battle of 
Lutien, in November, 163a.] 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



249 



Oh ye ! and each, and all ! Oh France ! who 

found 
Thy long fair fields, ploughed up as hostile 

ground. 
Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 
Looked down o'er trampled Paris I and thou 

Isle.i 
Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile. 
Thou momentary shelter of his pride, 
Till wooed by danger, his yet weeping bride ! 
Oh, France! retaken by a single march. 
Whose path was through one long triumphal 

arch ! 
Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo 1 
Which proves how fools may have their for- 
tune too, 
Won half by blunder, half by treachery : 
Oh, dull Saint Helen ! with thy gaoler nigh — 
Hear ! hear Prometheus ^ from his rock ap- 
peal 
To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 
His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 
A name eternal as the rolling year; 
He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 
So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong! 
A single step into the right had made 
This man the Washington of worlds betrayed : 
A single step into the wrong has given 
His name a doubt to all the winds of 

heaven ; 
The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 
Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 
His country's C^sar, Europe's Hannibal, 
Without their decent dignity of fall. 
Yet Vanity herself had better taught 
A surer path even to the fame he sought. 
By pointing out on history's fruitless page 
Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 
While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to 

heaven. 
Calming the lightning which he thence hath 

riven. 
Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
Freedom and peace to that which boasts his 

birth ; 3 
While Washington's a watchword, such as 

ne'er 
Shall sink while there's an echo left to air : * 



1 [The Isle of Elba.] 

2 [I refer the reader to the first address of Prome- 
theus in ^schyhis, when he is left alone by his 
attendants, and before the arrival of the Chorus of 
Sea-nymphs.] 

3 [The celebrated motto on a French medal of 
Franklin was — 

" Eripuit ccclo fulmcn, sceptrumque tyrannis-"] 
* [" To be the first man {not the Dictator), not 
the Sylla, but the Washington, or Aristides, the 
Jcader in talent and truth, is to be next to the Di- 
vinity." — Byrvn's Diary. ^ 



While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and 

war 
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar! 
Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 
The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 
Who bursts the chains of millions to renew 
The very fetters which his arm broke through. 
And crushed the rights of Europe and his 

own. 
To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 

VI. 

But 'twill not be — the spark's awakened — ■ 

lo! 
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 
The same high spirit which beat back the 

Moor 
Through eight long ages of alternate gore 
Revives — and where ? in that avenging clime 
Where Spain was once synonymous with 

crime. 
Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew. 
The mfent world redeems her name of "A'ew." 
Tis the f/i/ aspiration breathed afresh. 
To kindle souls within degraded f]esh. 
Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 
Where Greece was — No ! she still is Greece 

once more. 
One common cause makes myriads of one 

breast. 
Slaves of the east, or helots of the west ; 
On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurled. 
The self-same standard streams o'er either 

world ; 
The Athenian wears again Harmodius* 

sword ; ^ 
The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord ; 
The Spartan knows himself once more a 

Greek, 
Young Freedom plumes the crest of each 

cacique ; 
Debating despots, hemmed on either shore, 
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar ; 
Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides ad- 
vance. 
Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of 

France, 
Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and 

would fain 
Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 
But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 
Break o'er th' zEgean, mindful of the day 
Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise, 
Not to be lulled by tyrant victories. 



•'"' [The famous hymn, ascribed to Callistratus: — 
Covered with myrtle-wreaths, I'll wear my sword 

Like brave Harmodius, and his patriot friend 
Aristogeiton, who the laws restored. 

The tyrant slew, and bade oppressron end," 
etc. etc.] 



2$0 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



Lone, lost, abandoned in their utmost need 
8y Christians, unto whom they gave their 

creed. 
The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, 
The fostered feud encouraged to beguile, 
The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 
Prolonged but in the hope to make a prey ; — 
These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can 

show 
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
But this is well : Greeks only should free 

Greece, 
Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
How should the autocrat of bondage be 
The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan ; 
Better still toil for masters, than await, 
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
Numbered by hordes, a human capital, 
A live estate, existing but for tin-all, 
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
For the first courtier in the Czar's regard ; 
While their immediate owner never tastes 
His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes; 
Better succumb even to their own despair, 
And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 



But not alone within the hoariest clime 
Where Freedom dates her birth with that of 

Time, 
And not alone where, plunged in night, a crown 
Of Incas darkened to a dubious cloud, 
The dawn revives : renowned, romantic Spain 
Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 
Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ; 
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 
Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 
The warlike fethers of a thousand years. 
That seed is sown and reaped, as oft the Moor 
Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 
Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 
Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; 
The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 
Back to the barbarous realm from whence they 

sprung. 
But these are gone — their faith, their swords, 

their sway. 
Yet left more anti-christian foes than they: 
The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, 
The Inquisition, with her burning feast, 
The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel, 
While sate the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
Enjoying, with inexorable eye. 
That fiery festival of agony ! 
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was 

sloth ; 
The long degenerate noble ; the debased 



Hidalgo, and the peasant l^-ss disgraced. 
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm ; 
The once proud navy which forgot the helm; 
The once impervious phalanx disarrayed ; 
The idle forge that formed Toledo's blade ; 
The foreign wealth that flowed on ev'ry shore. 
Save hers who earned it with the natives' gore ; 
The very language which might vie with 

Rome's 
And once was known to nations like their 

homes 
Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain ; 
But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 
The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 
Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar; 
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain 
Revive the cry — " lago ! and close Spain ! " i 
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round 
And form the barrier which Napoleon found, 
The exterminating war, the desert phdn. 
The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 
Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop 
For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall > 
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall; 
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid. 
Waving her more than Amazonian blade ; 
The knife of Armgon,'-^ Toledo's steel ; 
The ftimous lance of chivalrous Castile ; 
The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 
The Andalusian courser in the van , 
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 
Such have been, such shall be, such are. 

Advance 
And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, 

France ! 

VIII. 
But lo ! a Congress ! 3 What ! that hallowed 

name 
Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the- 

same 
For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise, 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
The prophets of young Freedom, summoned 

far 
From climes of Washington and Boiivar; 
Henrv, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; 
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade. 
Robed in the lightningswhich his hand allayed; 
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 

1 [" Santiago, y serra Espana! " the old Spanish 
war-cry.] 

2 The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in 
the use of this weapon, and displayed it particularly 
in former French wars. 

3 [The Congress of the Sovereigns of Russia, Aus- 
tria, Prussia, etc. etc. etc., which assembled Rt Ve- 
rona, in the autumn of 1822.] 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



251 



To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 
But loho compose this senate of the few 
That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
This consecrated name, till now assigned 
To councils held to benefit mankind ? 
Who now assemble at the holy call ? 
The blest Alliance, which says three are all ! 
An earthly trinity! which wears the shape 
Of heaven's, as man is mimicked by the ape. 
A pious unity ! in purpose one — 
To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 
Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 
Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 
And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, 
Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 
But these, more hungry, must have something 

more. 
The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 
Ah ! how much happier were good ^sop's 

frogs 
Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro. 
And crushing nations with a stupid blow; 
All dully anxious to leave little work 
Unto the revolutionary stork. 



Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 
With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 
Honored by them, thy treacherous site forgets 
The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ; " 1 
Thy Scaligers — for what was " Dog the Great," 
" Can Grande," '^ (which I venture to trans- 
late,) 
To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 
Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; 
Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 
And Dante's exile sheltered by thy gate ; 
Thy good old man, whose world was all within 
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in ; 3 
Would that the royal guests it girds about 
Were so far like, as never to get out ! 
Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of 
shame. 



• [" I have been over Verona. The amphitheatre 
is wonderful — beats even Greece. Of the truth of 
Juliet's story, they seem tenacious to a degree, insist- 
ing on the fact — giving a date (1303), and showing 
a tomb. It is a plain, open, and partly decayed 
sarcophagus, with withered leaves in it, in a wild 
and desolate conventual garden, once a cemetery, 
now ruined to the very graves. The situation 
struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being 
blighted as their love. I have brought away a few 
pieces of the granite, to give to my daughter and 
my nieces. The Gotliic monuments of the Scaliger 
princess pleased me, but ' a poor virtuoso am I.'" 
— Byron's Letters, Nov. 1816.] 

- Cane I. Delia Scala, surnamed the Great, died 
in 1329: he was the protector of Dante, who cele- 
brated him as " il Gran Lombardo."] 

^ [Claudian's famous old man of Verona, " qui 
suburbiuni nunquani egrebtus est."] 



To tell Oppression that the world is tame. 
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, 
I'he comedy is not upon the stage; 
The show is rich in ribandry and stars. 
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 
Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 
For thus much still thy fettered hands are free ! 



Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb 

Czar,4 
The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 
As eager for a plaudit as a realm. 
And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, 
And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit ; 
Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw 
But hardened back whene'er the morning's 

raw ; 
With no objection to true liberty. 
Except that it would make the nations free. 
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace ! 
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free 

Greece ! 
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! 
How royally show off in proud Madrid 
His goodly person, from the South long hid ! 
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world 

knows. 
By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philips's son ! 
La Harpe, thine Aiistotle, beckons on ; 
And that which Scythia was to him of yore 
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine. 
Many an old woman, but no Catherine.^ 
Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 
The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields? 
Better reclaim thy desert^ turn thy swords 
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir 

hordes. 
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 
Than follow headlong in the fatal route. 
To infest the clime whose skies and laws are 

pure 
With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure : 
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 
Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher 

prey ? 



* [The Emperor Alexander; who died in 1825.] 
5 The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter 
(called the Great by courtesy), when surrounded 
by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river Pruth. 



252 



THE AGE OF BRONZE 



Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 
But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 
Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free; 
His tub hath tougher walls than sinope : 
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 
The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 



And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
( )(' lie plus ultra ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers 
And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
IVjfore he finds a voice, and when 'tis found, 
1 Icars " the lie " echo for his answer round ? 
Our British Commons sometimes deign to 

" hear! " 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear; 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who had 

rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
What is the simple standing of a shot. 
To hstening long, and interruj^ting not ? 
Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
When Tully fulmincd o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanctioned the transaction. 
In saying eloquence meant "Action, action ! " 

XII. 
But Where's the monarch ? hath he dined ? 

or yet 
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 
Have revolutionary pates risen. 
And turned the royal entrails to a prison ? 
Have discontented movements stirred the 

troops ? 
Or have no movements followed traitorous 

soups ? 
Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 
Each course enough ? or doctors dire dis- 
suaded 
Repletion? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 
I read all France's fl-eason in her cooks ! 
Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say, 
Desirable to be the " Desire ? " 
Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's 

green abode, i 
Apician table, and Horatian ode. 
To rule a people who will not be ruled, 
And love much rather to be scourged than 

schooled ? 
Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
For thrones ; the table sees thee better placed : 
A mild Epicurean, formed, at best. 



To be a kind host and as good a guest, 
To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
One Aal/the poet's, all the gourmand's art; 
A scholar always, now and then a wit. 
And gentle when digestion may permit; — 
But not to govern lands enslaved or free; 
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. 

XIII. 
Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 
"Arts — arms — and George — and glory — 

and the isles — 
And happy Britain — wealth — and Freedom's 

smiles — 
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof — 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curled, 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the 

world 1 2 
And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush ! 

not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other day — 
And ' pilots who have weathered every 

storm ' — 3 
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name 

Reform)." 
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
Methinks we need not sing them any more ; 
Found in so many volumes far and near, 
There's no occasion you. should find them 

here. 
Yet something may remain perchance to 

chime 
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with 

rhyme. 
Even this thy genius. Canning ! may permit. 
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit. 
And never, even in that dull House, couldst 

tame 
To unleavened prose thine own poetic flame ; 
Our last, our best, our only orator,* 



J [Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire — the residence 
of Louis XVIII. during the latter years of the Emi- 
gration.] 



2 " Naso suspendit adunco." — Horace. 

The Roman applies it lo one who merely was 
imperious to his acquaintance. 

3 [" The Pilot that weathered the storm," is the 
burden of a song in honor of Pitt, by Canning.] 

* [" I have never heard any one who fulfilled my 
ideal of an orator. Grattan would have been near 
it, but for his harlequin delivery. Pitt I never 
heard — Fox but once; and then he struck me as a 
debater, which to me seems as different from an 
orator as an improvisatore or a versifier from a 
poet. Grey is great, but it is not oratory. Canning 
is sometimes very like one. Whitbread was the 
Demosthenes of bad taste and vulgar vehemence, 
but strong, and English. Holland is impressive 
from sense and sincerity. Burdett is sweet and sil- 
very as Belial himself, and, I think, the greatest 
favorite m Pandemonium." — Byron's Dinry, 
1831.] 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



253 



Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more : 
Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, man, 

because 
Thy spirit less upholds (hem than il awes. 
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's 

hollo. 
And where he leads the duteous pack will 

follow ; 
But not for love mistake their yelling cry ; 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; i 
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To'stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
With his great self and rider in ihe mud : 
But what of that? the animal shows blood. 



Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 

Bewail her now ////country gentlemen ? 

The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 

The first to make a malady of peace. 

For what were all these country patriots born ? 

To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ? 

But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall. 

Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 

And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 

Wliy would you trouble Buonaparte's reign? 

He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices 

Destroyed but realms, and still maintained 
your prices ; 

He amplified to every lord's content 

The grand agrarian alchymy, high rent. 

Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 

And lower wheat to such desponding quar- 
ters ? 

Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 

The man was worth much more upon his 
throne. 

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were 
spilt. 

But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the 
guilt : 

But bread was high, the fiirmer paid his way, 

And acres told upon the appointed day. 

But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 

The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail ? 

The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 

The marsh reclaimed to most improving 
land ? 



* [On the suicide of Lord Londonderry, in Aug- 
ust, 1822, Mr. Canning, who had prepared to sail 
for India as Governor-General, was made Secretary 
of State for Foreign Affairs, — not much, it was 
alleged, to the personal satisfaction of George the 
Fourth, or of the high Tories in the cabinet. He 
lived to verify some of the predictions of the poet — 
to abandon \\\g. foreign policy of his predecessor — 
to break up the Tory party by a coalition with the 
Whigs — and to prepare the way for Reform in 
Parliament.] 



The impatient hope of the expiring lease? 
The doubling rental ? What an evil's peace ! 
•In vain the prize excites the ploughman's 

skill. 
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 
The landed interest — (you may understand 
The phrase much better leaving out the 

land) — 
The land self-interest groans from shore to 

shore, 
For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes, 
Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 
And patriotism, so delicately nice, 
Her loaves will lower to the market price; 
For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so 

high. 
Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry. 
And nought remains of all the millions spent, 
Excepting to grow moderate and content. 
They who are not so, had their turn — and 

turn 
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 
Now let their virtue be its own reward, 
And share the blessings which themselves 

prepared. 
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; 
Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling 

hands, 
Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent ! 
Year after year they voted cent, per cent.. 
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why? 

for rent ! 
They roared, they dined, they drank, they 

swore they meant 
To die for England — why then live ? — for 

rent! 
The peace has made one general malcontent 
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! 
Their love of country, millions all mis-spent, 
How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
No : down with every thing, and up with rent ! 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discon- 
tent, 
Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent! 
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess ; 
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten 

less; 
Now thou hast swilled thy pottage, thy 

demands 
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war. 
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a 

scar! 
What ! would they spread their earthquake 

even o'er cash ? 
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper 
crash ? 



254 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital ? 
Lo, Mother Church, wliile all religion writhes, 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes ; 
The prelates go to — where the saints have 

gone, 
And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark. 
Tossed by the deluge in their common ark. 
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
And why ? to pamper the self-seeking wants. 
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
" Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be 

wise ; " 
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride. 
The price of taxes and of homicide; 
Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
The debt of nations : — pray wko made it 

high f 

XV. 
Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks. 
The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 
Where Midas might again his wish behold 
In real paper or imagined gold. 
That magic palace of Alcina shows 
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose. 
Were all her atoms of unleavened ore, 
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 
There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the 

stake. 
And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 
How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines. 
Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines ; 
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey. 
Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 
But let us not to own the truth refuse. 
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 
Those parted with their teeth to good King 

John, 
And now, ye kings ! they kindly dra\y your 

own; 
All states, all things, all sovereigns they con- 
trol, 
And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole." 
The banker — broker — baron 1 — brethren, 

speed 
To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 
Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 
Fresh speculations follow each success ; 
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain. 
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia 

march ; 
'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's 

arch. 
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 
In every realm their scripture-promised 

land : — 



[Baron Rothschild.] 



Two Jews keep down the Romans, and up- 
hold 
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 
Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 
What is the happiness of earth to them ? 
A congress forms their " New Jerusalem," 
Where baronies and orders butli invite — 
Oh, holy Abraham ! dost ^liou see the sight ? 
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine. 
Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 
But honor them as portion ot the show — 
(Where now, oh pope! is thy forsaken toe ? 
Could it not favor Judah with some kicks ? 
Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks ? ") 
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 
To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of 
flesh." 

XVI. 

Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite 
All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. 
I speak not of the Sovereigns — they're alike, 
A common coin as ever mint could strike : 
But those who sway the puppets, pull the 

strings. 
Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine. 
While Europe wonders at the vast design : 
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite. 
Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight; 
There Chateaubriand forms new books of 

martyrs ; '^ 
And subtle Greeks 3 intrigue for stupid Tar- 
tars; 
There Montmbrenci, the sworn foe to 

charters,'* 
Turns a diplomatist of great eclat. 
To furnish articles for the " Debats ; " 
Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 
As his dismissal in the " Moniteur." 
Alas! how could his cabinet thus err? 
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister ? 
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again, 
" Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain." 5 

XVII. 

Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 
The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 



2 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten 
the author in the minister, received a handsome 
compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign: 
"Ah! Monsieur C, are you related to that Cha- 
teaubriand who — who — who has written sonie- 
thiiig?" (ecrit quelquc chose!) It is said that the 
author of Atala repented him for a moment of his 
legitimacy. 

^ [Count Capo d'Istrias — afterwards President of 
Greece. The Count was murdered, in September, 
1831, by the brother and son of a Mainote chief 
whom he had imprisoned.] 

* [The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval.] 

^ [From Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough.] 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



255 



The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride ; 
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy. 
The young Astyanax of modern Troy ; 
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen; 
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour, 
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 
A daughter ? What did France's widow 

there ? 
Her fitter place was by St, Helen's wave, 
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign. 
Flanked by her formidable chamberlain ; 
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
Must watch her through t^ese paltry pagean- 
tries. 1 
What though she share no more, and shared 

in vain, 
A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 
Which swept from Moscow to the southern 

seas! 
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese. 
Where Parma views the traveller resort 
To note the trappings of her mimic court. 
But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 
Of all her beams — while nations gaze and 

mourn — 
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 
To chill in their inhospitable clime ; 
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; — 
But no, their embers soon will burst the 

mould;) 
She comes ! — the Andromache (but not 

Racine's, 
Nor Homer's,) — Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she 

leans ! 
Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 



^ [Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second hus- 
band to Maria Louisa, had but one eye. The count 
died in 1831.] 



Which cut her lord's half-shattered sceptre 

through, 
Is offered and accepted ! Could a slave 
Do more? or less? — and he in his new 

grave 1 
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 
And the ^x-empress grow as ex a wife 1 
So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 
Why spare men's feelings, when their own 

are jests ? 

XVIII. 

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home. 
And sketch the group — the picture's yet to 

come. 
My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, 
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! 
While thronged the chiefs of every Highland 

clan 
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse 

roar, 
While all the Common Council cry " Clay- 
more! " 
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt 
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt,2 
She burst into a laughter so extreme. 
That I awoke — and lo ! it was no dream ! 
Here, reader, will we pause : — if there's no 

harm in 
This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second 
" Carmen." 



2 [George the Fourth is said to have been some- 
what annoyed, on entering the levee-room at Holy- 
rood (Aug. 1822) in full Stuart tartan, to see only 
one figure similarly attired (and of similar bulk) — 
that of Sir William Curtis. The city knight had 
every thing complete — even the knife stuck in the 
garter. He asked the King, if he did not think 
him well dressed. "Yes!" replied his Majesty, 
" only you have no spoon in your hose." The de- 
vourer of turtle had a fine engraving executed of 
himself in his Celtic attire.] 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

A ROMAUNT. 



L'univers est une esp^ce de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page quand on n'a vu qv.t j>on pays. 
J'en ai feuillete un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouve egalement mauvaises. Cet examea \.t m'a point 
ete infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai 
vecu, m'ont reconcilid avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tire d'autre benefice de mes voyages que celui-la, je 
n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues. — Le Cosmopolite ^ 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS. 

The following poem vk-as written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It 
was begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's 
observations in those countries. Thus much it maybe necessary to state for the correctness of the descrip- 
tions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. 
There, for the present, the poem stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to 
conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these two cantos are merely 
experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, how- 
ever, makes no pretension to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I 
set a high value, that in this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion of having 
intended some real personage: this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim — Harold is the child of imagi- 
nation, for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there 
might be grounds for such a notion ; but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation " Childe," as " Childe Waters," " Childe Child- 
ers," etc. is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The 
" Good Night," in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by " Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in 
the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some 
slight coincidence in the first part which treats of the Peninsula, but it can only be casual; as, with the 
exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. 
Pieattie makes the following observation: — " Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of 
Spenser, in which I proposed to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descrip- 
tive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humor strikes me: for, if I mistake not, the measure which 
I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of composition." - — Strengthened in my opinion by such 
authority, and by the example of some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for 
attempts at similar variations in the following composition; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their 
failure must be in the execution, rather than in the design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thom- 
son, and Beattie. 

London, February, 1812. 

^ [Par M. de Montbron, Paris, 1798. Byron somewhere calls it "an amusing little volume, full of 
French flippancy."] 
2 Beattie's Letters. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 2S1 



ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical journals have distributed their usual portion of criti- 
cism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object : it would ill become 
me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they had 
been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one 
point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indif- 
ferent character of the " vagrant Childe " (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still 
maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated that, besides the anachronism, he is very 
uttkuzghtly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honor, and so forth. Now, it so happens 
that the good old times, when " I'amour du bon vieux tems, I'amour antique " flourished, were the most 
profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult Sainte- 
Palaye, /fljj/w, and more particularly vol. ii. p. 69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any 
other vows whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were 
much less refined, than those of Ovid. The " Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour, ou de courtdsie et de 
gentilesse " had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject with 
Sainte-Palaye. Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage, Childe Har- 
old, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes — " No waiter, but a knight templar." * By the 
by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although very poetical 
personages and true knights " sans peur," though not " sans reproche." If the story of the institution 
of the " Garter" be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries borne the badge of a 
Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted 
that its days are over, though Marie-Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honors 
lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks - (the most chaste and celebrated 
of ancient and modern times), few exceptions will be found to this statement; and I fear a little investi- 
gation will teach us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages. 

1 now leave " Childe Harold" to live his day, such as he is; it had been more agreeable, and certainly 
more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make 
him do more and express less, but he never was intended as an example, further than to show, that early 
perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and 
that even the beauties of nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all 
excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, 
this character would have deepened as he drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant to fill 
up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon,^ perhaps a poetical Zeluco.* 

London, 1813. 

1" The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement." Anti-jacobin. 

2 [This compliment to Banks was ironical. His affairs with the women of Otaheite, during Cook's first 
voyage, had long been the subject of raillery in England.] 

3 [In one of his early poems — " Childish Recollections," — Byron compares himself to the Athenian 
misanthrope : — 

"Weary of Love, of Life, devoured with spleen, 
I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen," etc.] 

* [It was Dr. Moore's object, in this powerful romance, to trace the fatal effects resulting from a fond 
mother's unconditional compliance with the humors and passions of an only child. With high advan- 
tages of person, birth, fortune, and ability, Zekico is represented as miserable, through every scene of 
life, owing to the spirit of unbridled self-indulgence thus pampered in infancy.] 



258 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRhMAGE. 



TO lANTHE.i 



Not in those climes where I have late been 
straying, 

Though Beauty long hath there been match- 
less deemed ; 

Not in those visions to the heart displaying 

Forms which it sighs but to have only 
dreamed, 

Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy 
seemed : 

Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 

To paint those charms which varied as they 
beamed — 

To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language 
could they speak ? 

Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art. 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart. 
Love's image upon earth without his wing. 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus iiourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years. 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disap- 
pears. 

ilYoung Peri of the West ! — 'tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee. 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall 
bleed, 



Mine shall 



the 



escape tne doom thme eyes 
assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest 
hours decreed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the Ga- 
zelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy. 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly 

sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord ; nor ques- 
tion why 
To one so young my strain I would com- 
mend. 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily 
blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse en- 
twined ; " 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once numbered, should this hom- 
age past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou 

wast. 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could 
J. iiendship less require? 



1 [Lady Charlotte Harley, afterwards Lady Charlotte Bacon, second daughter of the Earl of Oxford, 
in the autumn of 1812, when these lines were addressed to her, had not completed her eieventh year. 
Her juvenile beauty has been preserved in a portrait which Westall painted at Byron's request.] 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



I. 

Oh, thou ! in Hellas deemed of heavenly 

birth. 
Muse ! formed or fabled at the minstrel's 

will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sighed o'er Delphi's long deserted 

shrine.i 



^ The little village of Castri stands partly on the 

t.' of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, 



Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 

from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn 
in and from the rock. " One," said the guide, " of 
a king who broke his neck hunting." His majesty 
had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an 
achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, sup- 
posed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper 
part of it is paved, and now a cow-house. On the 
other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery; 
some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with 
a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



259 



Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of 

Night. 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight. 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favor in his sight. 
Save concubines and carnal companie; 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low 
degree. 

III. 

Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence 

his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame. 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IV. 

Childe Harold basked him in the noontide 

sun. 
Disporting there like any other fly, 
Nor deemed before his little day was done 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his passed by. 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
He felt the fulness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell. 
Which seemed to him more lone than Ere- 
mite's sad cell. 

V. 

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run. 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
Had sighed to many though he loved but 

one, 
And that loved one , alas ! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose 

kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar 

bliss. 
And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his 

waste. 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned 

to taste. 



leading to the interior of the mountain; probably 
to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. 
From this part descend the fountain and the " Dews 
of Castalie." — ["We were sprinkled," says Hob- 
house, " with the spray of the immortal rill, and 
here, if anywhere, should have felt the poetic inspi- 
ration: we drank deep, too, of the spring; but — 
(I can answer for myselO — without feeling sensi- 
ble of any extraordinary effect."] 



VI. 
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at 

heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But Pride congealed the drop within his ee : 
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie, • 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; 
With pleasure drugged, he almost longed 

for woe. 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the i 

shades below. 

VII. 
The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall. 
Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome 1 condemned to uses vile ! 
Where superstition once had made her den 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and 

smile ; 
And monks might deem their time was come 

agen. 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy 

men. 

VIII. 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe 

Harold's brow, 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurked below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could 

not control. 

IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and 

bower 
He gathered revellers from far and near, 
He knew them flatterers of"the festal hour ; 

1 [In these stanzas, and indeed throughout his 
works, we must not accept too literally Byron's tes- 
timony against himself — he took a morbid pleasure 
in darkening every shadow of his self-portraiture. 
His life at Newstead had, no doubt, been, in some 
points loose and irregular enough; but it certainly 
never exhibited any thing of the profuse and Sul- 
tanic luxury which the language in the text might 
seem to indicate. In fact, the narrowness of his 
means at the time the verses refer to would alone 
have precluded this. His household economy, 
while he remained at the Abbey, is known to have 
been conducted on a very moderate scale; and, be- 
sides, his usual companions, though far from being 
averse to convivial indulgences, were not only, as 
Moore says, "of habits and tastes too intellectual 
for mere vulgar debauchery," but, assuredly, quite 
incapable of playing the parts of flatterers and 
parasites.] 



260 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea! none did love him — not his lemans 

dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's 

care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a fere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by 

glare. 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs 

might despair. 

X. 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did 

shun ; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of 

steel : 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly 

hope to heal. 

XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowv 

hands, 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimmed with every costly wine. 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine. 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's 

central line.i 

XII. 

The sails were filled, and fair the light winds 

blew. 
As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view. 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish, to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did 

come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and 

wept. 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning 

kept. 

XIII. 

But when the sun was sinking in the sea, 
He seized his harp, which he at times could 

string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody. 
When deemed he no strange ear was listen- 
ing : 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 



[Byron originally intended to visit India.] 



While flew the vessel on her snowy wing. 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 
Thus to the elements he poured his last 
" Good Night." 

I. 
" Adieu, adieu I my native shore 
Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee. 
My native I>and — Good Night! 



' A few short hours and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

3- 

Come hither, hither, my little page 1 2 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 

Our ship is swift and strong: 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along." 



Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love. 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and one above. 



My father blessed me fervently. 

Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again." — 
Enough, enough, my little lad ! 

Such tears become thine eye ; 
If I thy guileless bosom had, 

Mine own would not be dry .3 



2 [This " little page " was Robert Rushton, the 
son of one of Byron's tenants. " J take Robert 
with me," says the poet, in a letter to his motlier; 
" I like him, becanse, like myself, he seems a friend- 
less animal." The boy, being sickly, Byron, on 
reaching Gibraltar, sent him back to England.] 
2 [Here follows In the original MS. : — 
" My Mother is a high-born dame, 
And much misliketh me-. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGKLMAGE. 



261 



Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,i 

Why dost thou look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 

Or shiver at tlie gale ? " 
Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

7- 
My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake, 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer shall she make ? " 
Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of lighter mood, 

Will laugh to flee away. 



For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve. 

Nor perils gathering near; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 



And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog Mill whine in vain. 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again 

He'd tear me where he stands.2 



She saith my riot bringeth shame 

On all my ancestry : 
I had a sister once I ween, 

Whose tears perhaps will flow; 
But her fair face I have not seen 
For three long years and nioe."] 
^ [William Fletcher, his faithful valet. This un- 
sophisticated "yeoman" was a constant source of 
pleasantry to his master: — e.g. "Fletcher," he 
says, in a letter to his mother, " is not valiant: he 
requires comforts that I can dispense with, and 
sighs for beer, and beef, and tea, and his wife, and 
the devil knows what besides. We were one night 
lost in a thunder-storm, and since, nearly wrecked. 
In both cases he was sorely bewildered; from 
apprehensions of famine and banditti in the first, 
and drowning in the second instance. His eyes 
were a little hurt by the lightning, or crying, I don't 
know which. I did what I could to console him, 
but found him incorrigible. He sends six- sighs to 
Sally. I shall settle him in a farm; for he has 
served me faithfully, and Sally is a good woman."] 
' [Here follows in the original MS. : — 
" Methinks it would my bosom glad, 
To change my proud estate, 



" With thee, my bark, FU swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves'! 

And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! 

My native Land — Good Night ! " 3 

XIV. 

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepLwf 

bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon. 
New shores descried make every bosom 

gay; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their 

way, 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep. 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap. 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few 

rustics reap. 

XV. 
Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious 

land! 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious 

hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest 

scourge 



And be again a laughing lad 

With one beloved playmate. 
Since youth 1 scarce have passed an hour 

Without disgust or pain. 
Except sometimes in Lady's bower, 

Or when the bowl I drain."] 

•^ [Originally, the "little page" and the "yeo- 
man" were introduced in the follov/ing stanzas: — 

" And of his train there was a henchman page, 
A peasant bjy, who served his master well; 
And often v/ould his pranksome prate engage 
Childe Harold's ear, when his proud heart did 

swell 
With sable thoughts that he disdained to tell. 
Then would he smile on him, and Alwin smiled, 
When aught that from his yoinig lips archly fell 
The gloomy film from Harold's eye beguiled; 
And pleased for a glimpse appeared the woeful 

Childe. 

" Him and one yeoman only did he take 
To travel eastward to a far countrie; 
And, though the boy was grieved to leave the lake 
On whose fair banks he grew from infancy, 
Eftsoons his little hea t beat merrily 
With hope of foreign nations to behold, 
And many things right marvellous to see, 
Of which our vaunting voyagers oft have told. 

In many a tome as true as Mandeville's of old."] 



262 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



'Gainst tliose who most transgress his high 

command, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts 
urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foe- 
men purge. 

XVI. 

What beauties doth Lisboai first unfold! 
Her image floating on that noble tide. 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied. 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride. 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves 
the sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's un- 
sparing lord. 

XVII. 

But whoso entereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be. 
Disconsolate will wander up and dowli, 
Mid many things unsightly to strange ee; 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt. 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, 
unwashed ; unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest 

scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such 

men ? 
Lo 1 Cintra's 2 glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 



1 ["A friend advises Ulissipont ; but Lisbon is 
the Portuguese word, consequently the best. Ulis- 
sipont is pedantic; and as I had lugged in Hellas 
and Eros not long before, tliere would have been 
something like an affectation of Greek terms, which 
I wished to avoid. On the submission of Liisitaiiia 
to the Moors, they changed the name of the capital, 
which till then had been Ulisipo, or Li.-,po; because, 
in the Arabic alphabet, the letter p is not used. 
Hence, I believe, Lisboa; whence again, the 
French Lisbonne, and our Lisbon, — God knows 
which the earlier corruption! " Byron, MS.] 

- [" To make amends for the filthiness of Lisbon, 
and its still filthier inhabitants, the village of Cintra, 
about fifteen miles from the capital, is, perliaps, in 
every respect, the most delightful in Europe. It 
contains beauties of every description, natural and 
artificial; palacis and gardens rising in the midst 
of rocks, cataracts, and precipices; convents on 
stupendous heights; a distant view of the sea and 
the Tagus ; and, besides (though that is a secondary 
consideration), is remarkable as the scene of Sir 
Hew Dairy mple's convention. It unites in itself 
all the wildness of the western Highlands, with the 
verdure of the south of France?' — i5. to Mrs. 
Byron, 1809.J 



Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or 
pen. 

To follow half on which the eye dilates 

Through views more dazzling unto mortal 
ken 

Than those whereof such things the bard 
relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Ely- 
sium's gates ? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent 

crowned. 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy 

steep. 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies im- 

browned. 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs 

must weep. 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep. 
The orange tints that gild the greenest 

bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap. 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty 

glow. 

XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go. 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
And rest ye at " Our Lady's house otwoe ; "3 
Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punished been, and 

lo! 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a 

Hell. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you 

spring, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the 

path : 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous 

wrath : 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 



3 The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," 
Nossa Sehora de Pena, on the summit of the 
rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Con- 
vent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over which 
is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the 
beauty of the view. — [Since the publication of this 
poem, I have been informed of the misapprehension 
of the term Nossa Senora de Penn. It was owing 
to the want of the tilde, or mark over the n, which 
alters the signification of the word: with it, Pena 
signifies a rock ; without it, Pena has the ^ense I 
adopted. I do not think it necessary to aher the 
passage; as though the common acceptation affixed 
to it is " Our Lady of the Rock," I may well as- 
sume the other sense from the severities practised 
there, — Note to 2d Editton.\ 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



26J 



Poured fortli his blood beneath the assas- 
sin's knite, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering 

lath ; 
And grov'e and glen with thousand such 
are rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law se- 
cures not life.i 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath. 
Are domes where whilome kings did make 

repair ; 
But now the wild flowers round them only 

breathe ; 
Yet ruined splendor still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair : 
There thou too, Vathek ! 2 England's 

wealthiest son, 
Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds 

hath done, 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont 

to shun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of 

pleasure plan, 
Beneath yon mounfain's ever beauteous 

brow : 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide; 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
. Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
Swept itito wrecks anon by Time's ungentle 

tide ! 



^ It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, 
the assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its 
vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to 
their countrymen; but that Englishmen were daily 
butchered: and so far from redress being obtained, 
we were requested not to interfere if we perceived 
any compatriot defending himself against his allies. 
I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at 
eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were 
not more empty than they generally are at that 
hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage 
with a friend: had we not fortunately been armed, 
I have not the least doubt that we should have 

adorned a tale " instead of telling one. The crime 
of assassination is not confined to Portugal : in Sicily 
and Malta we are knocked on the head 5t a hand- 
some average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese 
is ever punished! 

^ [" Vathek " (says Byron, in one of his diaries) 
" was one of the tales I had a very early admiration 
of. For correctness of costume, beauty of descrip- ! 
tion, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all j 
European imitations; and bears such marks of orig- 
inality, that those who have visited the East will 
find some difficulty in believing it to be more than I 
a translation. As an eastern tale, even Rasselas | 
must bow before it: his 'happy valley' will not \ 
bear a comparison with the ' Hall of Eblis.' "J 



XXIV. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late con- 
vened ! «> 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo I a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and 

by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazoned glare names" known to 

chivalry. 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with 
all his soul.-* 

•* The Convention of Cintra was signed in the 
palace of the Marchese Marialva. — [Byron was 
mistaken. " The armistice, the negotiations, the 
convention itself, and the execution of its provisions, 
were all commenced, conducted, and concluded, at 
the distance of thirty miles from Cintra, with which 
place they had not the slightest connection, politi- 
cal, military, or local." — Napier s History 0/ the 
Peninsular War.\ 

* The passage stood differently in the original 
MS. The following verses Byron omitted at the 
entreaty of his friends: — 

In golden characters right well designed. 
First on the list appeareth one " Junot;" 
Then certain other glorious names we find, 
Which rhyme compelleth me to place below : 
Dull victors! baffled by a vanquished foe. 
Wheedled by conynge tongues of laurels due. 
Stand, worthy of each other, in a row — 
Sir Arthur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew 
Dalrymple, seely wight, sore dupe of t'other tew. 
Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome: 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
For well I wot, when first the news did come. 
That Vimiera's field by Gaul was lost, 
For paragraph ne paper scarce had room, 
Such Pasans teemed for our triumphant host. 
In Courier, Chronicle, and eke in Morning Post; 
But when Convention sent his handy-work. 
Pens, tongues, feet, hands, combined in wild up- 
roar; 
Mayor, aldermen, laid down the uplifted fork; 
The Bench of Bishops half forgot to snore; 
Stern Cobbett, who for one whole week forbore 
To question aught, once more with transport 

leapt. 
And bit his devilish quill agen, and .swore 
With foe such treaty never should be kept, 
Then burst the blatant* beast, and roiired, and 
raged, and — slept! 
Thus unto Heaven appealed the people: Heaven, 
Which loves the lieges of our gracious King, 
Decreed, that, ere our generals were forgiven. 
Inquiry should be held about the thing. 
But Mercy cloaked the babes beneath her wing; 



*" Blatant beast" — a figure for the mob, I 
think first used by Smollett in his " Adventures ol 
an Atom." Horace has the " bellua multorum capi- 
tum: " in England fortunately enough, the illus- 
trious mobility have not even one. 



264 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome: 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them be- 
guiled, 
And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's 

plume, 
And Policy regained what arms had lost : 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels 

bloom ! 
Woe to the conquering, not the conquered 
host, 
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's 
coast ! 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name; 
And folks in otiice at the mention fret, 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, 

for shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their 

fame. 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here. 
Where Scorn her finger points through many 

a coming year ? 



So deemed the Childe, as o'er the moun- 
tains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to 

flee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here awhile he learned to moralize, 
For Meditation fixed at times on him ; 
And conscious Reason whispered to despise 
His early youth, misspent in maddest whim ; 
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew 
dim. 

XXVIII. 

To horse ! to horse ! i he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his 
soul : 

And as they spared our foes, so spared we them ; 

(Where was the pity of our sires for Byng?*) 

Yet knaves, not idiots, should the law condemn; 
Then live, ye gallant knights' and bless your 
Judges' phlegm! 

1 [" After remaining ten days in Lisbon, we sent 
Bur baggage and part of our servants by sea to Gi- 
braltar, and travelled on horseback to Seville; a dis- 
tance of nearly four hundred miles. The horses 
are excellent: we rode seventy miles a day. Eggs i 



Again he rouses from his moping fits, 

But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 

Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal 

Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage; 

And o'er him many changing scenes must 
roll 

Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experi- 
ence sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 

Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless 
queen ; ^ 

And church and court did mingle their ar- 
ray. 

And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 

Lordlings and freres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 

But here the Babylonian whore hath built 3 

A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious 
sheen. 

That men forget the blood which she hath 
spilt. 
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to var- 
nish guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic 
hills, 

(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race I) 

Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 

Childe Harold wends through many a pleas- 
ant place. 

Though sluggards deem it but a foolish 
chase. 

And marvel men should quit their easy 
chair. 



* By this query it is not meant that our foolish 
generals should have been shot, but that Byng 
might have been spared, though the one suffered 
and the others escaped, probably for Candide's 
reason, "pour encourager les autres." 



and wine, and hard beds, are all the accommodation 
we found, and, in such torrid weather, quite enough." 
— B. Letters, \%o^.\ 

- [" Her luckless Majesty went subsequently 
mad; and Dr. Willis, who so dexterously cudgelled 
kingly pericraniums, could make nothing of hers." 
— Byron MS. The Queen labored under a melan- 
choly kind of derangement, from which she never 
recovered. She died in Brazil in i8i6.] 

^ The extent of Mafra is prodigious: it contains 
a palace, convent, and most superb church. The 
six organs are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in 
point of decoration: we did not hear them, hut were 
told that their tones were correspondent to their 
splendor. Mafra Is termed the Escurial of Pcriugal. 
[" About ten miles to the right of Cintra,"' says 
Byron, in a letter to his mother, " is the palace of 
Mafra, the boast of Portugal, as it might be of any 
country, in point of magnificence, without elegance. 
There is a convent annexed: the monks, who pos- 
sess large revenues, are courteous enough, and un- 
derstand Latin, so that we had a long conversation. 
They have a large library, and asked me if the l^^n^- 
Vish \\zd a7ty books in their country." — Mafra was 
erected by John V., in pursuance of a vow, made 
in a dangerous fit of illness, to found a convent for 
the use of the poorest friary in the kingdom. Upon 
inquiry, this poorest was found at Mafra; where 
twelve Franciscans lived together in a hut.] 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



265 



Tlio toilsome way, and long, long league to 

tiiice, 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to 
share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede. 

And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend ; 

Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! 

Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 

Spain's realms appear whereon her shep- 
herds tend 

Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the 
trader knows — 

Now must the pastor's arm his lambs de- 
fend : 

For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes. 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjec- 
tion's woes. 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet. 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms di- 
vide ? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and 

tall. 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land 
from Gaul : 

XXXIII. 
But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant 

sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen 

flow; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference 

know 
Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of 

the low.i 

XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been 

passed, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast. 
So noted ancient roundelays among, 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and Knight, irt mailed splendor 

drest : 



1 As I found the Portuguese, so I have charac- 
terized them. That they are since improved, at 
least in courage, is evident. The late exploits of 
Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. 
He has, indeed, done wonders: he has, perhaps, 
changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival 



Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk 

the strong ; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating 

hosts oppressed. 

XXXV. 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renowned, romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pclagio bore. 
When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic 

gore ? 2 
Where are those bloody banners which of 

yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale. 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
Red gleamed the cross, and waned the cres- 
cent pale. 
While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish 

matrons' wail. 

XXXVI. 
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
Ah 1 such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records 

fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine 

estate. 
See how the Mighty shrink into a song ! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee 

great ? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple 

tongue. 
When Flattery sleeps with thee; and History 

does thee wrong ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain I awake ! advance ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the 

skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 

superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never re- 
treated before his predecessors. — 1812. [In the 
Peninsular War the " Lusian slave " proved greatly 
superior to the " Spanish hind." When commanded 
by English officers and brigaded with English 
troops, the Portuguese made excellent soldiers.] 

2 Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. 
Pelagius preserved his independence in the fast- 
nesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his 
followers, after some centuries, completed their 
struggle by the conquest of Granada. — [Count 
Julian's daughter, called Cava by the Moors, is 
called Florinda by the Spaniards. She is said to 
have been violated by Roderick, the King of the 
Goths, and her father in revenge invited the Moors 
to invade Spain. The Goths were defeated (a.d. 
711), Roderick was killed, and the Moors remained 
masters of the greater part of the Peninsula; but 
Pelagius in the north, kept them at bay, and even 
recovered portions of the territory they had won.] 



266 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



And speaks in thunder through yon engine's 

roar! 
In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise ! " 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's 
shore ? 

XXXVIII. 

Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dread- 
ful note ? 

Sounds not the clang of conflict on the 
heath ? 

Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 

Nor saved your brethren ere they sank be- 
neath 

Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of 
death, 

The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to 
rock 

Each volley tells that thousands cease to 
breathe ; 

Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel 
the shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain 

stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands. 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are 

done ; . 
For on this morn three potent nations 

meet. 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems 

most sweet.i 

XL. 

By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother 

there) 
Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery. 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from 

their lair. 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the 

prey! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away. 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their 

array. 



^ [" A bolder prosopopoeia," says a nameless 
critic, " or one better imagined or expressed, can- 
not easily be foimd in the whole range of ancient 
and modern poetry. Unlike the ' plume of Horror,' 
or the ' eagle-winged Victory,' described by our 
great epic poet, this gigantic figure is a distinct ob- 
ject, perfect in lineaments, tremendous in opera- 
tion, and vested with all the attributes calculated to 
excite terror and admiration."] 



XLI. 

Three hosts combine to oifer sacrifice; 

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on 
high ; 

Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue 
skies ; 

The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Vic- 
tory ! 

The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 

That fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 

Are met — as if at home they could not 
die — 

To feed the crow on Talavera's plain. 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to 
gain.2 



2 [The following note Byron suppressed with re- 
luctance, at the urgent request of a friend. It 
alludes, inter alia, to the then recent publication 
of Sir Walter Scott's Vision of Don Roderick, the 
profits of which had been given to the cause of 
Portuguese patriotism : — " We have heard wonders 
of the Portuguese lately, and their gallantry. Pray 
Heaven it continue; yet ' would it were bed-time, 
Hal, and all were well! ' They must fight a great 
many hours, by ' Shrewsbury clock,' before the 
number of their slain equals that of our countrymen 
butchered by these kind creatures, now metamor- 
phosed into ' ca^adores,' and what not. I merely 
state a fact, not confined to Portugal; for in Sicily 
and Malta we are knocked on the head at a hand- 
some average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese 
is ever punished! The neglect of protection is dis- 
graceful to our government and governors; for the 
murders are as notorious as the moon that shines 
upon them, and the apathy that overlooks them. 
The Portuguese, it is to be hoped, are compli- 
mented with the ' Forlorn Hope,' — if the cowards 
are become brave (like the rest of their kind, in a 
corner), pray let them display it. But there is a 
subscription for these ' 0pa(rv-6eiAo(,' (they need 
not be ashamed of the epithet once applied to the 
Spartans); and all the charitable patronymics, from 
ostentatious A. to diffident Z., and £\: i: o from 
'An Admirer of Valor,' are in requisition for the 
lists at Lloyd's, and the honor of British benevo- 
lence. Well! we have fought, and subscribed, and 
bestowed peerages, and buried the killed by our 
friends and foes; and, lo! all this is to be done over 
again ! Like Lien Chi (in Goldsmith's Citizen of 
the World), as 'we grow older, we grow never the 
better.' It would be pleasant to learn who will sub- 
scribe for us, in or about the year 1815, and what na- 
tion will send fifty thousand men, first to be decimated 
in the capital, and then decimated again (in the Irish 
fashion, ni7ie out of teii) , in the ' bed of honor; ' 
which, as Sergeant Kite says, is considerably larger 
and more commodious than ' the bed of Ware.' 
Then they must have a poet to write the ' Vision 
of Don Perceval,' and generously bestow the profits 
of the well and widely printed quarto, to rebuild the 
' Backwynd ' and the ' Canongate,' or furnish new 
kilts for'the half-roasted Highlanders. Lord Well- 
ington, however, has enacted marvels; and so did. 
his Oriental brolher, whom I saw charioteering over 
the French flag, and heard clipping bad Spanish, 
after listening to the speech of a patriotic cobbler of 
Cadiz, on the event of his own entry into that city, 



CHILD R HAROLD'S PLLGRLMAGE. 



267 



XLII. 

There shall they rot -=- Ambition's honored 

fools ! 
Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their 

clay ! 
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their 

\\ay 
With human hearts — to what? — a dream 

alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their 

sway ? 
Or call with truth one span of earth their 

own. 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone 

by bone ? 

XLIII. 

Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief! 

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his 

steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should boast 

and bleed ! 
Peace to the perished! may the warrior's 

meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping 

throng. 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of 

transient song. 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for 

fame : 
Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single 

name. 
In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their coun- 
try's good, 



and the exit of some five thousand bold Britons out 
of this ' best of all possible worlds.' Sorely were 
we puzzled how to dispose of that same victory of 
Talavera; and a victory it surely was somewhere, 
for everybody claimed it. The Spanish despatch and 
mob called it Cuesta's, and made no great mention 
of the Viscount; the French called it theirs (to my 
great discomfiture, — for a French consul stopped 
my mouth in Greece with a pestilent Paris gazette, 
just as I had killed Sebastiiai, 'in buckram,' and 
King Joseph, 'in Kendal green'), — and we have 
not yet determined ivhnt to call it, or whose ; for, 
certes, it was none of our own. Howbeit, Massena's 
retreat is a great comfort ; and as we have not been in 
the habit of pursuing for some years past, no wonder 
we are a little awkward at first. No doubt we shall 
improve; or, if not, we have only to take to our 
old way of retrograding, and there we are at 
home."] 



And die, that living might have proved her 
shame ; 

Perished, perch;ince, in some domestic feud, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path 
pursued. 

XLV^ 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 

Where proud Sevilla ^ triumphs unsubdued : 

Yet is she free — the spoiler's wished-for 
prey! 

Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot in- 
trude. 

Blackening her lovely domes with traces 
rude. 

Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive 

Where Desolation plants her famished 
brood 

Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive. 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease 
to thrive. 

XLVI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom, 

The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 

Strange modes of merriment the hours con- 
sume. 

Nor bleed these patriots with their country's 
wounds : 

Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck 2 
sounds ; 

Here Folly still his votaries inthralls ; 

And young-eyed Lewdness walks her mid- 
night rounds: 

Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the totter- 
ing walls. 

XLVI I. 

Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 

He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar. 

Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 

Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 

No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 



1 [" At Seville, we lodged in the house of two 
Spanish unmarried ladies, women of character, the 
eldest a fine woman, the youngest pretty. The 
freedom of manner, which is general here, aston- 
ished me not a little; and, in the course of further 
observation, I find that reserve is not the character- 
istic of Spanish belles. The eldest honored your 
unworthy son with very particular attention, em- 
bracing him with great tenderness at parting (I was 
there but three days), after cutting off a lock of his 
hair, and presenting him with one of her own, about 
three feet in length, which I send you, and beg you 
will retain till my return. Her last words were, 
' Adios, tu hermoso, me gusto mucho!' 'Adieu, 
you pretty fellow, you please inc much ! ' " — Byron 
to his Mother., August, 1809.] 

- [A kind of fiddle, with only two strings, played 
on by a bow, said to have been brought by the 
Moors into Spain. " The Spanish women," wrote 
Byron in August, 1809, " are certainly fascinating, 
but their minds have only one idea, and the busi- 
ness of their lives is intrigue."] 



268 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRTMAGE. 



Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : 

Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye 

mar, 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man 
be happy yet ! 

XLViir. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to 

cheer. 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? 
No ! as he speeds, he chants " Viva el 

Rey!"i 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black- 
eyed boy, 
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her 
adulterate joy. 

XLIX. 

On yon long, level plain, at distance crowned 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets 

rest, 
Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the 

wounded ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's dark- 
ened vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-fiame, and 

the host, 
Here the bold peasant stormed the dragon's 

nest ; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant 

boast, 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were 

won and lost. 

L. 

And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue. 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom 

to greet : 2 
Woe to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue. 



' "Viva el Rey Fernando! " Long live King 
Ferdinand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish 
patriotic songs. They are chiefly in dispraise of the 
old king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of 
Peace. I have heard many of them: some of the 
airs are beautiful. Don Manuel Godoy, the Prhi- 
cipe de la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, 
was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, 
and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish 
guards; till his person attracted the queen's eyes, 
and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, etc. etc. 
It is to this man that the Spaniards universally im- 
pute the ruin of their country. 

2 The red cockade, with "Fernando VII.," in the 
centre. 



If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke. 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the 
cannon's smoke. 

LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road. 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed, 
The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stowed, 
The bolstered steed beneath the shed of 

thatch. 
The ball-piled pyramid,^ the ever-blazing 

match, 

LII. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose 
nod 

Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 

A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 

A little moment deigneth to delay : " 

Soon will his legions sweep through these 
their way ; 

The West must own the Scourger of the 
world. 

Ah I Spain 1 how sad will be thy reckoning- 
day, 

When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings 
unfurled, 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Ha- 
des hurled. 

LIII. 

And must they fall ? th.e young, the proud, 
the brave, 

To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome 
reign ? 

No step between submission and a grave ? 

The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 

And doth the Power that man adores ordain 

Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's ap- 
peal ? 

Is all that desperate Valor acts in vain ? 

And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Man- 
hood's heart of steel ? 



LIV. 

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused. 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused. 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of 

war ? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appalled, an owlet's larum chilled with 

dread. 



3 All who have seen a battery will recollect the 
pyramidal form in which shot and shells are piled. 
The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile 
through which I passed in my way to Seville. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



269 



Now views the column-scattering bayonet 

jar, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm 

dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might 

quake to tread. 

LV. 
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh 1 had you known her in her softer hour. 
Marked her black eye that mocks her coal- 
black veil. 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower. 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's 

power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's 

tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's 

fearful chase. 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed 
tear; 

Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post; 

Her fellows flee — she checks their base ca- 
reer ; 

The foe retires — she heads the sallying host : 

Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 

Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 

What m.aid retrieve when man's flushed 
hope is lost? 

Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered 
wall ? 1 

LVII. 
Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But formed for all the witching arts of love : 



' Such were the expluils of the Maid of Saragoza, 
who by her valor elevated herself to the highest rank 
of heroines. When the author was at Seville she 
walked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals 
and orders, by command of the Junta. — [The ex- 
ploits of AugHstiaa, the famous heroine of both the 
sieges of Saragoza, are recorded at length in South- 
ey's History of the Penirisular War. At the time 
when she first attracted notice, by mounting a bat- 
tery where her lover had fallen, and working a gun 
in his room, she was in her twenty-second year, ex- 
ceedingly pretty, and in a soft feminine style of 
be luty. She has further had the honor to be painted 
by Wilkie, and alluded to in Wordsworth's Disser- 
tation on the Convention of Cintra; where a noble 
passage concludes in these words: — " Saragoza has 
exemplified a melancholy, yea a dismal truth, — yet 
consolatory and fall of joy, — that when a people 
are called suddenly to fight for their liberty, and are 
sorely pressed upon, their best field of battle is the 
floors upon which their children have played; the 
chambers where the family of each man has slept; 
upon or under the roofs by which they have been 
slieltered; in the gardens of their recreation; in the 
street, or in the market-place; before the altars of 
their temples, and among their congregated dwell- 
ings, blazing or uprooted."] 



Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness of a dove. 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is noblei sure, her charms perchance 
as great. 

LVIII. 
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath im- 
pressed 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his 

touch : '^ 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their 

nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her 

cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous 

clutch ! 
Who round the North for paler dames would 

seek ? 
How poor their forms appear ! how languid, 

wan, and weak ! 

LIX. 
Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to 

laud; 
Match me, ye harams of the land I where 

now 3 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that e'en a cynic must avow ; 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce 

allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the 

wind. 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters * — 

deign to know, 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 
His black-eyed maid's of Heaven, angeli- 
cally kind. 

LX. 
Oh, thou Parnassus ! 5 whom I now survey, 
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye. 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native 

sky. 



2 " Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo 

Vestigio demonstrant moUitudinem." 

Aid. Gel. 

3 This stanza was written in Turkey. 

* [" Long black hair, dark languishing eyes, 
clear olive complexions, and forms more graceful 
in motion than can be conceived by an F^nglishman, 
used to the drowsy, listless air of his countrywomen, 
added to the most becoming dress, and, at the same 
time, the most decent in the world, render a Span- 
ish beauty irresistible." — Byron to his Mother, 
Aug. 1809.] 

•'■' These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), 
at the foot of Parnassus, now called AcciKoypa (Lia- 
kura), Dec. iSog. 



270 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his 

string, 
Thous;h from thy heights no more one Muse 

will wave her wing. 

LXI. 

Oft have I dreamed of Thee 1 whose glori- 
ous name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest 

lore : 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee ! l 

LXII. 
Happier in this than mightiest bards have 

been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their 

lot. 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene. 
Which others rave of, though they know it 

not? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his 

grot, 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their 

grave. 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot. 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious 

wave. 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turned aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of 

Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear ; 
And -hailed thee, not perchance without a 

tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 



1 [" Upon Parnassus, going to the fountain of 
Delphi (Castri), in 1809, I saw a flight of twelve 
eagles (Hobhouse says they were vultures — at 
least in conversation), and I seized the omen. On 
the day before, I composed the lines to Parnassus 
(in Cliilde Harold), and on beholding the birds, 
had a hope that Apollo had accepted my homage. 
I have at least had the name and fame of a poet, 
during the poetical period of life (from twenty to 
thirty); — whether it will last is another matter: 
but 1 have been a votary of the deity and place, and 
am grateful for what he has done in my behalf, 
leaving tlie future in his hands, as I left the past." 
— Byro7is Diary, 1821.] 



Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless 

plant. 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle 

vaunt. 

LXIV. 
But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when 

Greece was young. 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, 
Nor e'er dip Delphi, when her priestess sun.,^ 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal 

fire. 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah 1 that to these were given such peaceful 

shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly 

her glades. 

LXV. 
Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient 

days ; 2 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
Calls forth a* sweeter, though ignoble 

praise. 
Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous 

ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 

'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive 

shape. 

LXVI. 

When Paphos fell by time — accursed 

Time ! 
The Queen who conquers all must yield to 

thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a 

clime ; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea. 
To nought else constant, hither deigned to 

flee; 
And fixed her shrine within these walls ol 

white ; 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth 

she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing 

bright.3 

LXVII. 
From morn till night, from night till startled 

Morn 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing 

crew, 



2 Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 

■' ["Cadiz, sweet Cadiz! — it is the first spot in 
the creation. The beauty of its streets and_ man- 
sions is only excelled by the Iqveliness of its inhab- 
itants. It is a complete Cythera, full of the finest 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



271 



The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour 
by turns, 

LXVIII. 
The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast ; 
Hark ! heard you not the forest-monarch's 

roar ? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting 

gore 
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his 

horn ; 
The thronged arena shakes with shouts for 

more; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly 
torn. 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects 
to mourn. 

LXIX. 
The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou knowest the day 

of prayer, 
Then thy spruce citizen, washed artisan. 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one- 
horse chair. 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs 

whirl ; 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make 

repair ; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to 
hurl. 
Provoking envious gibe form each pedestrian 
churl.i 

LXX. 
Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned 

fair. 
Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to 
Ware. 



women in Spain; the Cadiz belles being the Lan- 
cashire witches of their land."- — Byron to his 
Mother. 1809.] 

1 [" In thus mixing up the light with the solemn, 
it was the intention of the poet to imitate Ariosto. 
But it is far easier to rise with grace, from the level 
of a strain generally familiar, into an occasional 
short burst of pathos or splendor, than to interrupt 
thus a prolonged tone of solemnity by any descent 
into the ludicrous or burlesque. In the former case, 
the transition may have the effect of softening or 
elevating; while, in the latter, it almost invariably 
shocks; — for the same reason, perhaps, that a trait 
of pathos or high feeling, in comedy, has a peculiar 
charm; while the intrusion of comic scenes into 



And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye Boeotian shades ! the reason why ? 2 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery, 
In whose dread name both men and maids 

are sworn. 
And consecrate the oath with draught, and 

dance till morn.3 

LXXI. 

All have their fooleries — not alike are 

thine. 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them 

free 
(Weil do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen 

be; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same 

diversion share. 

LXXII. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area 

cleared. 
Thousands on thousands piled are ^ated 

round 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is 

heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames 

abound. 
Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye. 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain are doomed 

to die 
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's 

sad archery. 

LXXIII. 

Hushed is the din of tongues — on gallant 
steeds. 

With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light- 
poised lance. 

Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds. 

And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 



tragedy, however sanctioned among us by habit 
and authority, rarely fails to offend. The poet was 
himself convinced of the failure of the experiment, 
and in none of the succeeding cantos of Childe 
Harold repeated it." — Moore.^ 

- This was written at Thebes, and consequently 
in the best situation for asking and answering such 
a question ; not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as 
the capital of Boeotia, where the first riddle was pro- 
pounded and solved. 

^ [Byron alludes to a ridiculous custom which 
formerly prevailed at the public-houses in Highgate, 
of administering a burlesque oath to all travellers 
of the middling rank who stopped there. The party 



272 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Rich are their scarfs, their charges featly 

prance ; 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely 

glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their 
toils repay. 

LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed, 
But all afoot, the light-limbed Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is trav- 
ersed o'er. 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his 

speed: 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly 
steed — 
Alas ! too oft condemned for him to bear and 
bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal 

falls. 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled 
'^=^alls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty 

brute. 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding 

foot. 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, 

to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fixed : away. 
Away, thou heedless boy I prepare the spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers 

veer ; 
Dn foams the bull, but not unscathed he 

goes ; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent 

clear : 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his 

throes; 
Dart follows dart ; lance lance ; loud bellow- 

ings speak his woes. 



was sworn on a pair of horns, fastened, " never to 
kiss the maid when he could the mistress; never to 
oat brown bread when he could get white; never 
to drink small beer when he could get strong; " 
with many other injunctions of the like kind, — to 
all which was added the saving clause, — "unless 
you like it best."] 



LXXVII. 

Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 

Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 

Though man and man's avenging arms 
assail. 

Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 

One gallant steed is stretched a mangled 
corse ; 

Another, hideous sight ! unseamed appears. 

His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame 
he rears ; 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord un- 
harmed he bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the 

last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay. 
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances 

brast. 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready 

brand. 
Once more through all he bursts his thun- 
dering way — 
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge 
hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks 
upon the sand ! i 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the 
spine. 

Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon 
lies. 

He stops — he starts — disdaining to de- 
cline : 

Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries. 

Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 

The decorated car appears — on high 

The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar 
eyes — 

Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as 
shy. 
Hurl the" dark bulk along, scarce seen in dash- 
ing by. 

LXXX. 
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 

The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish 
swain. 

1 [So inveterate was, at one time, the rage of the 
Spanish people for this amusement, that even boys 
mimicked its features in their play. In the slaugh- 
ter-house itself the professional bull-fighter gave 
public lessons; and such was the force of depraved 
custom, that ladies of the highest rank were not 
ashamed to appear amidst the filth and horror of the 
shambles. The Spaniards received this sport from 
the Moors, among whom it «v5v= celebrated ivitb 
great pomp and splendor.] 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



■m 



Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village 

stain ! 
Though now one phalanxed host should 

meet the foe 
Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow. 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's 

warm stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 

But Jealousy- has fled : his bars, his bolts, 
His withered centinel. Duenna sage! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts. 
Which the stern dotard deemed he could 

encage 
Have passed to darkness with the vanished 

age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the 
green. 
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover- 
loving Queen ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a*ime, and oft, had Harold loved. 
Or dreamed he loved, since Rapture is a 

dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved. 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he 'earned with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he 

seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
^ome bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom 

flings.i 

LXXXIII. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind. 
Though now it moved him as it moves the 

wise ; 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful 

eyes : 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous 

tomb. 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's palled victim ! life-abhorring 
gloom 
Vrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unrest- 
ing doom. 

LXXXIV, 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
But viewed them not with misanthropic 
hate : 



^ " Medio de fonte leporum," etc. — Lucret. 



Fain would he now have joined the dance, 

the song ; 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his 

fate? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's 

sway. 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Poured forth this unpremeditated lay, 
To charms as fair as those that soothed his 

happier day. 

TO INEZ. 



Nay, smHe not at my sullen brow; 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Yet Hett^'en avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 



And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 

And wilt thou vainly seek to know 

A pang, even thou must fail to soothe ? 



It is not love, it is not hate, 

Nor low Ambition's honors lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state. 
And fly from all I prized the most : 



It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see ♦ 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for m«. 

5- 
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; 
That will not look beyond the tomb, 

But cannot hope for rest before. 



What Exile from himself can flee ? 

To zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be. 

The blight of life — the demon Thought. 



Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 
And taste of all that I forsake ; 

Oh ! may they still of transport dream. 
And ne'er at least like me, awake ! 



Through many a clime 'tis mine to go. 
With many a retrospection curst ; 

And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 



m 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



What is that worst ? Nay do not ask — 
In pity from the search forbear; 

Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.i 

LXXXV, 
Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have 

stood ? 
When all wert changing thou alone wert 

true, 
First to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude. 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to 

dye; 



^ In place of this song, which was written at 
Athens, January 25, 1810, and which contains, as 
Moore says, " some of the dreariest touches of sad- 
ness that ever Byron's pen let fall," we find, in the 
first draught of the Canto, the following : — 



Oh never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies; 
It has not been your lot to see, 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eye be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses. 



Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire, that through those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll, 

Froni^eyes that cannot hide their flashes: 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthened flow her raven tresses. 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel. 

And curled to give her neck caresses. 



Our English maids are long to woo, 

And frigid even in possession ; 
And if their charms be fair to view. 

Their lips are slow at Love's confession: 
But born beneath a brighter sun, 

For love ordained the Spanish maid is. 
And who, — when fondly, fairly won, — 

Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz? 



The Spanish maid is no coquette, 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, 
And if she love, or if she hate. 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

'Twill love you long and love you dearly. 



The Spanish girl that meets your love 
Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 

For every thought is bent to prove 
Her passion in the hour of trial. 



A traitor only fell beneath the feud : 2 
Here all were noble, save Nobility; 
None hugged a conqueror's chain, save fallen 
Chivalry. 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her 

fate ! 
They fight for freedom who were never free ; 
A Kingless people for a nerveless state. 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains 

flee, 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery : 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but 

life, 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife. 
War, war is still the cry, " War even to the 

knife I " 3 

Lxxxvn, 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards 

know 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign 

foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his 

need — 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed. 
So may such foes deserve the most remorse- 
less deed I * 



When thronging foemen menace Spain, 
She dares the de^d and shares the danger; 

And should her lover press the plain, 
She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 



And when, beneath the evening star. 

She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
Or joins devotion's choral band, 

To chaunt the sweet and hallowed vesper ; 



In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her; 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder: 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roarn 

Where many a soft and melting maid is. 
But none abroad, and few at home, 

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz. 

2 Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, 
the governor of Cadiz, in May, 1809. 

3 " War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the 
French general at the siege of Saragoza. 

* The Canto, in the original MS., closes with the 
following stanzas ■" — 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



21S 



LXXXVIII, 

Flows there a tear of pity fur tlie dead ? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter 

red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain, 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw; 
Let their bleached bones, and blood's un- 

bleaching stain, 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes 

we saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done ; 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees : 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fallen nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she 

frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchained : 
Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sus- 
tained, 
While o'er the parent cUme prowls Murder 
unrestrained. 



Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards 

know, 
Sights, Saints, Antiques, Arts, Anecdotes, and 

War, 
Go! hie ye hence to Paternoster Row — 
Are they not written in the Book of Carr,* 
Green Erin's Knight and Europe's wandering 

star! 
Then listen, Reader, to the Man of Ink, 
Hear what he did, and sought, and wrote afar; 
All these are cooped within one Quarto's brink. 
This borrow, steal, — don't buy, — and tell us what 

you think. 

There may you read, with spectacles on eyes, 
How many Wellesleys did embark for Spain, 
As if therein they meant to coloni5:e, 
How many troops y-crossed the laughing main 
That ne'er beheld the said return again; 
How many buildings are in sucli a place. 
How many leagues from this to yonder plain, 
How many relics each cathedral grace, 
And where Giralda stands on her gigantic base. 

There may you read (Oh, Phoebus, save Sir John ! 
That these my words prophetic may not err) 
All that was said, or sung, or lost, or won. 
By vaunting Wellesley or by blundering Frere, 
He that wrote half the " Needy Knife-Grinder," f 
Thus poesy the way to grandeur paves — 



* Porphyry said that the prophecies of Daniel 
were written after their completion, and such may 
be my fate here; but it requires no second sight to 
foretell a tome; the first glimpse of the knight was 
enough. 

t [The " Needy Knife-grinder," in the Anti- 
jacobin, was a joint production of Frere and Can- 
ning.] 



XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavera shed. 

Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 

Not Albucra lavish of the dead, 

Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 

When shall her Olive-Branch be free from 
blight ? 

Wlien shall she breathe her from the blush- 
ing toil ? 

How many a doubtful day shall sink in 
night. 

Ere the Frank robber turn him from his 
spoil, 
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of 
the soil ! 



And thou, my friend ! i — since unavailing 

woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the 

strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to'com- 

plain : 



Who would not such diplomatists prefer? 
But cease, my Muse, thy speed some respite craves, 
Leave Legates to their house, and armies to their 
graves. 

Yet here of Vulpes mention may be made. 
Who for the Junta modelled sapient laws. 
Taught them to govern ere they were obeyed; 
Certes, fit teacher to command, because 
His soul Socratic no Xantippe awes; 
Blest with a dame in Virtue's bosom nurst, — 
With her let silent admiration pause ! -^ 
True to her second husband and her first: 
On such unshaken fame let Satire do its worst. 

1 The Honorable John Wingfield, of the Guards, 
who died of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him 
ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest 
part of mine. In the short space of one month, I 
have lost her who gave me being, and most of 
those who had made that being tolerable. To me 
the lines of Young are no fiction: — 
" Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? 

Thy shat't flew thrice, and thrice my peace was 
slain, 

And thrice ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn." 
I should have ventured a verse to the memory of 
the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of 
Downing College, Cambridge, were he not t >o 
much above all praise of mine. His powers of 
mind, shown in the attainment of greater honors, 
against the ablest candidates, than those of any 
graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently 
established his fame on the spot where it was ac- 
quired; while his softer qualities live in the recol- 
lection of friends who loved him too well to envy 
his superiority. — ["To him all the men I ever 
knew were pigmies. He was an intellectual giant. 
It is true I loved Wingfield better; he was the earli- 
est and the dearest, and one of the few one could 
never repent of having loved: but inability — Ah, 
you did not know Matthews! " — Byron to Dallas, 
1812.] 



276 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain, 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, ' 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted 

slain, 
While Glory crowns so many a meaner 
crest ! 
What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully 
to rest ? 

XCII. 

Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the 

most! 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so 

dear! 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 



Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, • 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
And mourned and mourner lie united in 
repose. 

XCIII. 

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know. 
Shall find some tidings in a future page. 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much ? stern Critic ! say not so : 
Patience! and ye shall hearwhat he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doomed to go : 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous 
hands were quelled. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



I. 
Come; blue-eyed maid of heaven! — but 

thou, alas, 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,i 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire. 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages 

slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polished 

breasts bestow. 



Ancient of days ! august Athena ! 2 where. 
Where are thy men of might ? thy grand 
in soul ? 



^ Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the ex- 
plosion of a magazine during the Venetian siege. — 
[On the highest part of Lycabettus, as Chandler 
was informed by an eye-witness, the Venetians, in 
1687, placed four mortars and six pieces of cannon, 
when they battered the Acropolis. One of the 
bombs was fatal to some of the sculpture on the 
west front of the Parthenon. " In 1667," says Hob- 
house, "every antiquity of which there is now any 
trace in the Acropolis, was in a tolerable state of 
preservation. This great temple might, at that 
period, be called entire; — having been previously 
a Christian church, it was then a mosque, the most 
beautiful in the world."] 

■2 We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with 
which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of em- 
pires, are beheld: the reflections suggested by such 
objects are too trite to require recapitulation. But 
never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of 
his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of 



Gone — glimmering through the dream of 

things that were : 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal, 
They won, and passed away — is this the 

whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's 

stole 



valor to defend his country, appear more conspicu- 
ous than in the record of what Athens was, and the 
certainty of what she now is. This theatre of con- 
tention between mighty factions, of the struggles of 
orators, the exaltation and deposition of tyrants, 
the triumph and punisliment of generals, is now 
become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual dis- 
turbance, between the bickering agents of certain 
British nobility and gentry. " The wild foxes, the 
owls and serpents in the ruins of Babylon," were 
surely less degrading than such inhabitants. The 
Turks have the plea of conquest for their tyranny, 
and the Greeks have only suffered tlie fortune of 
war, incidental to the bravest; but how are the 
mighty fallen, when two painters contest the privi- 
lege of plundering the Parthenon, and triumph in 
turn, according to the tenor of each succeeding fir- 
man ! Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, and 
Xerxes burn Athens; but it remained for the paltry 
antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render 
her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. The 
Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire 
during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a 
church, and a mosque. In each point of view it is 
an object of regard : it changed its worshippers; but 
still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to devo- 
tion: its violation is a triple sacrilege. But— - 

" Man, proud man, 
Drest in a little brief authority. 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heai 
As make the angels weep." 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



277 



Are sought in vain, and o'er each moulder- 
ing tower, 
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade 
of power. 

III. 

Son of the morning, rise ! approach you 

here! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless 

urn: 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer 

burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their 

turn : 
'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other 

creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall 

learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope 

is built on reeds, i 

IV. 

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to 

heaven — 
Is't not enough, unhappy thing! to know 
Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou would'st be again, and 

Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what 

region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the 

skies ? 



. 1 [In the original MS. the following nole to this 
stanza had been prepared for publication, but was 
afterwards withdrawn, '' from a fear," says the poet, 
" that it might be considered rather as an attack, 
than a defence of religion : " — " In this age of big- 
otry, when the puritan and priest have changed 
places, and the wretched Catholic is visited with the 
' sins of his fathers,' even unto generations far be- 
yond the pale of the commandment, the cast of 
opinion in ih'jse stanzas will, doubtless, meet with 
many a contemptuous anathema. But let it be re- 
membered, th it the spirit they breathe is despond- 
ing, not sneeiing, scepticism; that he who has seen 
the Greek and Moslem superstitions contending for 
mastery over the former shrines of Polytheism — 
who has left in his own, ' Pharisees, thanking God 
that they are not like publicans and sinners,' and 
Spaniards in theirs, abhorring the heretics, who 
have holpea them in their need, — will be not a lit- 
tle be^N'ildered, and begin to think, that as only one 
of ihem can be right, they may, most of them, be 
wrong. With regard to morals, and the effect of 
religion on mankind, it appears, from all historical 
testimony, to have had less effect in making them 
love their neighbors, than inducing that cordial 
Christian abhorrence between sectaries and schis- 
matics. The Turks and Quakers are the most tol- 
erant: if an Infidel pays his heratch to the former, 
he may pray how, when, and where he pleases; and 
the mild tenets, and devout demeanor of the latter, 
make their lives the truest commentary on the Ser- 
mon on the Moimt."] 



Still wilt thou dream on future joy and 

woe ? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
That little urn saith more than thousand 

homilies. 

V. 

Or burst the vanished Hero's lofty mound ; 

Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : '^ 

He fell, and falling nations mourned 

around ; 
But now not one of saddening thousands 

weeps. 
Nor warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appeared, as records 

tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scattered 

heaps : 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell? 
Why even the worm at last disdains her 

shattered cell I 

VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall. 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the 

Soul : 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless 

hole. 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, 
And Passion's host, that never brooked 

control. 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ. 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? 

VII. 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest 

son! 
" All that we know is, nothing can be 

known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot 

shun ? 
Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers 

groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their 

own. 
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth 

best; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated 

guest. 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome 

rest. 



2 It was not always the custom of the Greeks to 
burn their dead; the greater Ajax, in particidar, 
was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became 
gods after their decease; and he was indeed neg- 
lected, who had not annual games near his tomb, or 
festivals in honor of his memory by his country- 
men, as Achilles, Brasidas, etc., and at last even 
Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his life was 
infatrious. 



278 



CHTLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



VIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore. 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who n?.ade our mortal labors 

light ! 
To hear each voice we feared to hear no 

more! 
Behold each mighty shade revealed to 

sight. 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who 

taught the right ! i 

IX. 

There, thou ! — whose love and life together 
fled, 

Have left me here to love and live in 
vain — 

Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee 
dead 

When busy Memory flashes on my brain ? 

Well — 1 will dream that we may meet 
again, 

And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 

If aught of young Remembrance then re- 
main, 

Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit 
blest ! 2 

X. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base; 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne : 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be : nor even can Fancy's eye 
Restore v/hat Time hath labored to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing 

sigh ; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek 

carols by. 

XI. 

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee 



1 [In the MS., instead of this stanza, was the 
following: — 
" Frown not upon nje, churlish Priest! that I 

Look not for life, where life may never be; 

I am no sneerer at thy phantasy; 

Thou pitiest me, — alas! 1 envy thee, 

Thou bold discoverer in an unknown sea, 

Of happy isles and happier tenants there; 

I ask thee not to prove a Sadducee; 

Still dream of Paradise, thou know'st not where, 
But lov'st too well feo bid thine erring brother 
share." 

- [Byron wrote this .-stanza at Newstead, in Octo- 
ber, i8ii, on hearin? of tlie death of his Cambridge 
friend, youns Eddle.stone.] 



The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine : 
Thy free-born men should spare what once 

was free ; 
Yet they could violate each saddening 

shrine. 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant 

brine. 3 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast. 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time 

hath spared : ^ 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand 

prepared. 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains : 
Her sons too weak the sacred . shrine to 

guard. 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,5 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Des- 
pot's chains. 

XIII. 

What! shall it e'er be said by British 
tongue, 

Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 

Though in thy name the slaves her bosom 
wrung, 

Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; 

The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 

The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 

Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name en- 
dears. 

Tore down those remnants with a harpy's 
hand. 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left 
to stand.o 



•^ The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which six- 
teen columns, entirely of marble, yet survive; orig- 
inally there were one hundred and fifty. These 
columns, however, are by many supposed to have 
belonged to the Pantheon. 

* See Appendix to this Cuito [A], for a note too 
long to be placed here. 

" I cannot resist availing myself of the permis- 
sion of my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires 
no comment with the public, but whose sanction 
will add tenfold weight to my testimony, to insert 
the following extract from a very obliging letter of 
his to me, as a note to the above lines: — " When 
the last of the Metopes was taken from the Parthe- 
non, and, in moving of it, great part of the super- 
structure with one of the triglyphs was thrown down 
by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the 
Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the building, 
took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, 
in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, 
TeAo?! — I was present." The Disdar alluded to 
was the father of the present Disdar. 

« [After stanza xiii. the original MS. has the 
following: — 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



279 



XIV. 
Where was thine /Egis, Pallas ! that appalled 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ? ^ 
Where Peleus' son ? whom Hell in vain 

enthralled, 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once 

more, 
To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore, 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield 

before. 

XV. 
Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on 

thee. 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
UuU is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines 

removed 
By British hands, which it had best behooved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they 

roved. 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
And snatched thy shrinking Gods to northern 

climes abhorred 1 

XVI. 
But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
Little recked he of all that men regret; 
No loved-one now in feigned lament could 

rave; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes ; 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not 

enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times. 
And left without a sigh the land of war and 

crimes. 



" Come, then, ye classic Thanes of each degree, 
Dark Hamilton and sullen Aberdeen, 
Come pilfer all the Pilgrim loves to see, 
All that yet consecrates the fading scene: 
Oh ! better were it ye had never been. 
Nor ye, nor Elgin, nor that lesser wight, 
The victim sad of vase-collecting spleen, 
House-furnisher withal, one Thomas hight, 

Than ye should bear one stone from wronged 
Athena's site. 

'■ Or will the gentle Dilettanti crew 
Now delegate the task to digging Cell, 
That mighty limner of a birds'-eye view, 
How like to Nature let his volumes tell ; 
Who can with him the folio's limits swell 
With all the Author saw, or said he saw? 
Who can topographize or delve so well? 
No boaster he, nor impudent and raw, 

His pencil, pen, and shade, alike without a flaw."] 
* According to Zosimus, Minerva and Aehilles 

frightened Alaric from the Acropolis; but others 



XVII. 
He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea 
Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may 

be. 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow. 
The convoy spread like wild swans in theii 

flight, 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now. 
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing 

prow. 

XVIII. 
And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,^ 
The hoarse command, the busy humming 

din. 
When, at a word, the tops are manned on 

high : 
Hark, to the Boatswain's call, the cheering 

cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle 

glides. 
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides. 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin 

guides. 

XIX. 
White is the glassy deck, without a stain. 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant 

walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks. 
Silent and feared by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would pre- 
serve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever 

balks 
Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely 

swerve 
From law, however stern, which tends their 

strength to nerve. 

XX. 

Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling 

gale! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening 

ray; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail. 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay. 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest 

breeze ! 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of 

day, 

relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischiev- 
ous as the Scottish peer. — See Chandler. 

^ To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on 
deck during action, 



280 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 
The flapping sail hauled down to halt for logs 

like these! 

XXI. 
The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves 

expand ; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids 

believe : 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; 
A circle there of merry listeners stand, 
Or to some well-known measure featly move. 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free 

to rove. 

XXII. 
Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy 

shore ; 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky 

Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze. 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown. 
Distinct, though dai kening with her waning 

phase ; 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, 
'Yom mountain-cliff to coast descending 

sombre down, 

XXIII. 
'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an 

end: 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a 

friend. 
Who with the weight of years would wish 

to bend. 
When Youth itself survives young Love 

and Joy ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend. 
Death hath but little left him to destroy ? 
Air! happy years ! once more who would not 

be a boy ? 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and 

Pride, 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward 

year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possessed 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast 
Vould still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart 

divest. 

XXV. 
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell. 
To slowly trace the fbresfs shady scene, 



Where things that own not man's dominion 

dwell, 
And mortal foot hath^e'er or rarely been ; 
To climb tho trackless mountain all unseen. 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her 
stores unrolled. 

XXVI. 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of 

men. 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess. 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we 

can bless. 
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness en- 
dued. 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less. 
Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and 
sued; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude I 

XXVII. 
More blest the life of godly eremite, 
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen.l 
Watching at eve upon the giant height. 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so 

serene. 
That he who there at such an hour hath 

been, 
Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the witching 

scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his 
lot. 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost for- 
got. 

XXVIII. 
Pass we the long, unvarying course, the 

track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the 

tack. 
And each well known caprice of wave and 

wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find. 



1 [One of Byron's chief delights was, as he him- 
self states in one of his journals, after bathing in 
some retired spot, to seat himself on a high rock 
above the sea, and there remain for hours, gazing 
upon the sky and the waters. " He led the life," 
says Sir Egerton Brydges, " as he wrote the strains, 
of a true poet. He could sleep, and very frequently 
did sleep, wrapped up in his rough great coat, on 
the hard boards of a deck, while the winds and the 
waves were roaring round him on every side, and 
could subsist on a crust and a glass of water. It 
would be difficult to persuade me, that he who is a 
coxcorab m his manners, and artificial in his habits 
of life, could write good poetry."] 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



281 



Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 

The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 

As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 

Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! and all 

is well. 

XXIX. 

But not in silence piss Calypso's isles, i 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased 

to weep, 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who daied prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder 

tide; 
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen 

doubly sighed. 

XXX. 

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous 

throne, 
And thou mayest find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be 

thine : 
But checked by every tie, I may not dare 
. To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for 
mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady's eye 
He looked, and met its beam without a 

thought. 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by: 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
Since now he vainlv urged him to adore, 
Well deemed the little God his ancient sway 

was o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence 2 found, in sooth with some 

amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sighed to all he 

saw. 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 
Which others hailed with real or mimic awe, 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment^ 

their law ; 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen 

claims: 
And much she marvelled that a youth so raw 



1 Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 

2 [Mrs. Spencer Smith, an accomplished but 
eccentric lady, whose acquaintance the poet formed 
at Malta.] 



Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told 
flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet 
rarely anger dames. 



Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now masked in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art,3 
And spread its snares licentious fai and 

wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside. 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining 

crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's 
breast, 

Who thinks that wanton thing is won by 
sighs ; 

What careth she for hearts when once pos- 
sessed ? 

Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 

But not too humbly, or she will despise 

Thee and thj^suit, though told in moving 
tropes: 

Disguise even tenderness, if thou art wise ; 

Brisk Confidence still best with woman 
copes ; 
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion 
crowns thy hopes. 

XXXV. 

'Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 

And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo. 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost. 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! 

these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost. 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease. 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to 

please. 

XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song. 

For we have many a mountain-path to 

tread. 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
pr e'er in new Utopias were ared, 



3 [Against this line it is sufficient to set the poet's 
own declaration, in 1821, — "I am not a Joseph, 
nor a Scipio, but I can safely affirm, that I never 
in my life seduced any woman."] 



282 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



To teach man what he might be, or he 

ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be 

taught. 

XXXVII. 
Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
Though alway changing, in her aspect mild ; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill. 
Her never-weaned, though not her favored 

child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild. 
Where nothing polished dares pollute her 

path : 
To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though i have marked her when none other 

hath, 
■Sid sought her more and more, and loved 

her best in wrath. 

XXXVIII. 
Land of Albania I where Iskander rose. 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the 

wise, 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous em- 
prize : 
Land of Albania ! i let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nur^ of savage men ! 
Tiie cross decends, thy minarets arise. 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each 
city's ken. 

XXXIX. 
Childe Harold sailed, and passed the bar- 
ren spot 
Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave ; 2 
And onward viewed the mount, not yet for- 
got. 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal 

save 
That breast imbued with such immortal 

fire? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only heaven to which Earth's children 
may aspire. 

XL. 
'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape 

afar ; 3 ,> 

A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave : 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar; 4 

' See Appendix to this Canto, Note [B]. 

2 Ithaca. 

' Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the prom- 
)ntory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have 
thrown herself. 

* Actium and Trafalgar need nn further mention. 
The battle of Lapanto, equally bloody and consid- 



Mark them unmoved, for he would not de- 
light 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at 
martial wight. 



But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe. 
And hailed the last resort i" frui^'ess love. 
He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow : 
And as the stately vessel glided slow- 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount. 
He watched the billows' melancholy flow. 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his 
pallid front. 

XLII. 

Morn dawns ; and with it stern Albania's 

hills. 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bede^^ed with snowy rills, 
Arrayed in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break. 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his 

beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear. 
And gathering storms around convulse the 

closing year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone. 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown. 
Which all admire, but many dread to view : 
His breast was armed 'gainst fate, his wants 

were few ; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
The scene was savage, but the scene was 

new ; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet. 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed 

summer's heat. 

XLIV. 

Here the -red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood 

dear; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul superstition 1 howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate 

thy dross ? 



erable, but less known, was fought in the Gulf of 
Patras. Here the author of Don Quixote lost his 
left hand. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



283 



XLV. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing I 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king i 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
Look where the second Ceesar's trophies 

rose : ^ 
Now,like the hands that reared them, wither- 
ing : 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God 1 was thy globe ordained for such to win 

and lose? 

XLVI. 
From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Even to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Harold passed o'er many a mount 

sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic 

tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus 

fails. 
Though classic ground and consecrated 

most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this 

lowering coast. 

XLVI I. 
He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,8 
And left the primal city of th land. 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief,^ whose dread com- 
mand 



1 It is said, that, on th i y previous to th battle 
of Actium, Antony had irteen kings at h.s levee. 
— ["To-day" (Nov. 12), "I s .w the remains of 
the town of Actium, near wh h Antony lost the 
world, in a small bay, wher t o frigates could 
hardly manoeuvre: a broken wall is the sole rem- 
nant. On another part of the gulf stand the ruins 
of Nicop'^lis, built by Augustus, in hon r of his 
victory."] — Byron to his Mother , 1809. 

- Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is 
at some distance from Actium, where the wall of 
the Hippodrome survives in a few fragments. These 
ruins are large masses of brickwork, the bricks of 
which are joined by interstices of mortar, as large 
as the bricks themselves, and equally durable. 

^ According to Pouqucville, the lake of Yanina: 
but Pouqueville is always out. 

* The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordi- 
nary man there is an incorrect account in Pouque- 
ville's Travels. — [" I left Malta in the Spider 
brig-of-war, on the 21st of September, and arrived 
in eight days at Prevesa. I thence have traversed 
the interior of the province of Albania, on a visit to 
the Pacha, as far as Tepaleen, his highness's coun- 
try palace, where I stayed three days. The name 
of the icha is Ali, and he is considerod a man of 
the first abilitit he governs the wholo of Albania 
(the ancient Illyricum), Epirus, and part of Mace- 
donia." — Byron to his Mother. ^ 



Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
Yet here and there some daring mountain- 
band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to 
gold.5 

XLVIII. 
Monastic Zitza I 6 from thy shady brow. 
Thou small, but favored spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are 

found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet 

please the soul. 



Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill. 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still. 
Might well itself be deemed of dignity. 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on 

high : 

Here dwells the caloyer,' nor rude is he, 

Nor niggard of his cheer; the passer by 

Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 

From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen 

to see. 

L. 
Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his 

breast. 



5 Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and 
in the castle of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Al- 
banians for eighteen years; the castle at last was 
taken by bribery. In this contest there were several 
acts performed not unworthy of the better days of 
Greece. 

6 The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' 
journey from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of 
the Pachalick. In the valley the river Halamas 
(once the Acheron) flows, and, not far from Zitza, 
forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the 
finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi 
and parts of Acarnania and i'Etolia may contest the 
palm. Delphi, Parnassu , and, in Attica, even 
Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, are very inferior; 
as also very scene in Ionia, or the Troad : I am 
almost inclined to add the approach to Constanti- 
nople; but, from the different features of the last, 
a comparison can hardly be made. [" Zitza," says 
the poet's companion, " is a village inhabited by 
Greek peasants. Perhaps there is not in the world 
a more romantic prospect than that which is viewed 
from the stimmit of the hill. The foreground is a 
gentle declivity, terminating on every side in an 
extensive landscape of grean hills and dale, enriched 
with vineyards, and dotted with frequent flocks."] 

^ The Greek monks are so called. 



284 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching 

ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the 

eve away. 

LI. 

, Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight. 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, i 
Chimsera's alps extend from left to right : 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the 

mountain-fir 
Nodding above ; behold black Acheron ! 2 
9nce consecrated ^■o the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, 
Crose shamed Elysiuji-i's gates, my shade shall 
seek for none. 

LI I. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote. 
Veiled by the screen of hills : here men are 

few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot : 
But peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scattered 

fiock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote 3 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rook, 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived 

shock. 

LIII. 

Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove ? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's '■ 

shrine ? i 

All, all forgotten — and shall man repine j 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? i 
Cease, fool 1 the fate of gods may vAell be- ' 

thine : I 

Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? j 

When nations, tongues, and worlds muU sink [ 

beneath the stroke ! ■ 1 

Liv. 1 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye : 
Even on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long ex- 
panse. 
And woods along the banks are waving high. 



Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's 
solemn trance. 

LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 4 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; 5 
The shades of wonted night were gathering 

yet. 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky. 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and draw- 
ing nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sighed along the 
lengthening glen. 6 



He passed the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
Surveyed the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaimed his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate. 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and san- 
tons wait : 



' The Chimariot mountams appear to have been 
Volcanic. 

- Now called Kalamas. 3 Albanese eloak. 



* Anciently Mount Tomarus, 

s The river Laos was full at the time the author 
passed it; and immediately above Tepaleen, was to 
the eye as wide as the Thames at Westminster; at 
least in the opinion of the author and his fellow- 
traveller. In the summer it must be much nar- 
rower. It certainly is the finest river in the Levant; 
neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander, 
nor Ca ster, approached it in breadth or beauty. 

'■ [" All Pacha, hearing that an Englishman of 
rank was in his dominions, left orders, in Yanina,. 
with the commandant, to provide a house, and sup- 
ply me with every kind of necessary gratis. I 
rode out on the vizier's horses, and saw the palaces 
of himself and grandsons. I shall never forget the 
.singular scene on entering Tepaleen, at five in the 
a'^ternooa (Oct. ii), as the sun was going down. 
U brought to my mind (with some change of a'r^j.y, 
however) Scott's description of Branksome Castle 
in his Lay, and the feudal system. The Albanians 
in their dresses (the most magnificent in the world, 
C.ciisisting of a long white kilt, gold-worked cloak, 
crimson velvet gold-laced jacket and waistcoat, sil- 
ver-mounted pistols and daggers); the Tartars, 
with their high caps; the Turks in their vast pelis- 
ses and turbans; the soldiers and black slaves with 
the horses, the former in groups, in an immense 
large open gallery in front of the palace, the latter 
placed in a kind of cloister below it; two hundred 
steeds ready caparisoned to move in a moment; 
couriers entering or passing out with despatches; 
the kettle-dnmis beating; boys calling the hour 
from the minaret of the mosque; — altogether, with 
the singular appearance of the building itself, formed 
a new and delightful spectacle to a stranger. I was 
conducted to a very handsome apartment, and my 
health inquired after by the vizier's secretary, ' a la 
mode Turque.' " — Byron's Letters.^ 



CHIL-ttE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



285 



Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 



Richly caparisoned, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide extending couit below ; 
Above, strange groups adorned the corri- 

dore; 
And oft-times through the area's echoing 

door. 
Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed 

away ; 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the 

Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced 

the close of day. 

LViir. 
The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee. 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun. 
And gold-embroidered garments, fail- to see : 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The D.;lhi with his cap of terror on. 
And crooked glaive; the lively,supple Greek; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to 
speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIX. 
Are mixed conspicuous : some recline in 

groups. 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion 

Stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, 

are found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the 

ground ; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to 

prate ; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn 

sound, 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
" There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ! 

God is great ! " i 



1 ['* On our arrival at Tepaleen, we were lodged 
in the palace. During the night, we were disturbed 
by the perpetual caron^^al which seemed to be kept 
up in the gallery, and by the drum and the voice of 
the ' Muezzin,' or chanter, calling the Turks to 
prayers from the minaret or the mosque attached to 
the palace. The chanter was a boy, and he sang 
out his hymn in a sort of loud melancholy recita- 
tive. He was a long time repeating the purport of 
these few words: ' God most high! I bear witness, 
that there is no god but God, and Mahomet is his 
prophet: come to prayer; come to the asylum of 
salvation; great God! there is no god but God! ' " 
— Hobhoiise.\ 



LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fasf'^ 
Through the long day its penance did main- 
tain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past. 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board 

within ; 
The vacant gallery now seemed made in 

vain. 
But from the chambers came the mingling 
din. 
As page and slave anon were passing out and 
in. 

LXI. 
Here woman's voice is never heard : apart. 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to 

move. 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : 
For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares. 
Blest cares ! all. other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she 
bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner pas- 
sion shares. 

LXII. 
In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose. 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling. 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed re- 
pose, 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes : 3 

2 [" We were a liitle unfortunate in the time we 
chose for travelling, for it was during the Ramazan, 
or Turkish Lent, which fell this year in October, 
and was hailed at the rising of the new moon, on 
the evening of the 8th, by every demonstration of 
joy: but although, during this month, the strictest 
abstinence is observed in the daytime, yet with the 
setting of the sun the feasting commen es: then is 
the time for paying and receiving visits, _ and for 
the amusements of Turkey, puppet-shows, jugglers, 
dancers, and story-tellers." — Hobhcntse.^ 

3 [" On the i2th, I was introduced to Ali Pacha. 
The vizier received me in a large room paved with 
marble; a fountain was playing in the centre. He 
received me standing, a wonderful compliment from 
a Mussulman, and made me sit down on his right 
hand. His first question was, why, at .so early an 
age, I left my country. He then said, the English 
minister had told him I was of a great family, arid 
desired his respects to my mother; which I now, in 
the name of Ali Pacha, present to you. He said 
he was certain I was a man of birth, because 1 had 
smill ears, curling hair, and little white hands. He 
told me to consider him as a father, whilst I was in 
Turkey, and said he lo'jked on me as his own son. 
Indeed, he treated me like a child, sending me al- 
monds and sugared sherbet, fruit, and sweetmeats, 
twenty times a day. I then, after coffee and pipes, 
retired." — Byron to his Mother,^ 



2S6 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milderradiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him 
with disgrace. 

LXIII. 
It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; ^ 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averred, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of 

Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have marked him with a tiger's 

tooth ; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mor- 
tal span, 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with 
blood began,2 

LXIV. 
'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet. 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury. 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice re- 
treat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But Peace abliorreth artificial joys. 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of 
both destroys. 

LXV. 
Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous 
need : 



1 THubhouse describes the vizier as " a short 
man, about five feet five inches in height, and very 
fat; possessing a very pleasing face, fair and round, 
with blue quick eyes, not at all settled into a Turk- 
ish gravity." Dr. Holland happily compares the 
spirit which hirked under All's usual exterior, as 
" the fire of a stove, burning fiercely under a smooth 
and polished surface." When the doctor returned 
from Albania, in 1813, he brought a letter from the 
Pacha to Lord Byron. " It is," says the poet, " in 
Latin, and begins ' Excellentissime, nectwn Caris- 
sime,' and ends about a gun he wants made for him. 
He tells me that, last spring, he took a town, a hos- 
tile town, where, forty-two years ago, his mother 
and sisters were treated as Miss Cunegunde was by 
the Bulgarian cavalry. He takes the town, selects 
all the survivors of the exploit — children, grand- 
children, etc. to the tune of six hundred, and has 
them shot before his face. So much for ' dearest 
friend.' "] 

2 [The fate of AH was such as the poet antici- 
pated. He was assassinated by order of the Sultan 
in February, 1822. His head was sent to Constan- 
tinople, and exhibited at the gates of the seraglio.] 



Their wrath how deadly ! but tlieir friend- 
ship sure. 
When Gratitude or Valor bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief 
may lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's 
tower 

Thronging to war in splendor and success ; 

And after viewed them, when, within their 
power, 

Himself awhile the victim of distress ; 

That saddening hour when bad men bot- 
her press : 

But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 

When less barbarians would have cheered 
him less. 

And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — 3 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand 
the proof! 

Lxvn. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove 
his bark 

Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 

When all around was desolate and dark; 

To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 

Yet for a while the mariners forbore, 

Dubious to trust where treachery mierht 
lurk: ^ ^ 

At length they ventured forth, though doubt- 
ing sore 

That those who loathe alike the Frank and 
Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher- 
work. 

LXVI 1 1. 

Vain fear! the Suliotes stretched the wel- 
come hand. 

Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous 
swamp. 

Kinder than polished slaves though not so 
bland. 

And piled the hearth, and wrung their gar- 
ments damp. 

And filled the bowl, and trimmed the cheer- 
ful lamp, 

And spread their fare; though homely, all 
they had : 

Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare 
stamp — 

To rest the weary and to soothe tlie sad. 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least 
the bad. 

LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combined marauders half-way barred 
egress. 



3 Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



287 



And wasted far and near with glaive and 

brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
In war well seasoned, and with labors tanned. 
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide. 
And from his further bank .^^tolia's wolds 

espied. 

LXX. 
Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest. 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's 

grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's 

breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the 

west, 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's se- 
rene : — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene. 
For many a joy could he from Night's soft 

presence glean. 

LXXI. 
On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly 

blazed. 
The feast was done, the red wine circling 

fast.i 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared 

aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was 

past. 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikar '^ his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man linked to 

man, 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the 

kirtled clan.3 



1 The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from 
wine, and indeed, very few of the others. 

2 Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single 
person, from ITaAiKapt, a general name for a soldier 
amongst the Greeks and Albanese who speak Ro- 
maic: it means, properly, " a lad." 

3 [" In the evening the gates were secured, and 
preparations were made for feeding our Albanians. 
A goat v/as killed and roasted whole, and four fires 
were kindled in the yard, round which the soldiers 
seated themselves in parties. After eating and 
drinking, the greatest part of them assembled round 
the largest of the fires, and, whilst ourselves and 
the elders of the party were seated on the ground, 
danced round the blaze, to their own songs, with 
astonLshing energy. All their songs were relations 
of some robbing exploits. One of them, which de- 
tained them more than an hour, began thus: — 
* When we set out from Parga, there were sixty of 
as: ' then came the burden of the verse, — 

' Robbers all at Parga! 

Robbers all at Parga! ' 
* KAe<^T6t5 TTore Ilapya ! 

KAe^rets Trore Ilapya ! ' 



LXXII. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
And viewed, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee ; 
And, as the flames along their faces gleamed, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing 

free. 
The long wild locks that to their girdles 

streamed. 
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, 

half screamed : — ■* 



Tambourgi! TambourgilS thy 'larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, lUyrian, and dark Suliote ! 6 



Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild 

flock. 
And descends to the plain like the stream from 

the rock. 

3- 
Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance 

forego ? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 



Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the 
chase : 



and, as they roared out this stave, they whirled 
round the fire, dropped, and rebounded from their 
knees, and again whirled round, as the chorus was 
again repeated. The rippling of the waves upon 
the pebbly margin where we were seated, filled up 
the pauses of the song with a milder, and not more 
monotonous music. The night was very dark; but, 
by the flashes of the fires, we caught a glimpse of 
the woods, the rocks, and the lake, which, together 
with the wild appearance of the dancers, presented 
us with a scene that would have made a fine picture 
in the hands of such an artist as the author of the 
Mysteries of Udolpho. As we were acquainted 
with the character of the Albanians, it did not at all 
diminish our pleasure to know, that every one of 
our guard had been robbers, and some of them a 
very short time before. It was eleven o'clock be- 
fore we had retired to our room, at which time the 
Albanians, wrapping themselves up in their capotes, 
went to sleep round the fires." — Hobkouse.'] 

* [For a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout 
dialect of the lilyric, see Appendix to this CantOj 
Note [C].] 

» Drummer. 

^ These stanzas are partly taken from differen* 
Albanese songs, as far as I was able to make them 



288 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Rut those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, 

before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 



Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the 

waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be 

slaves. 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and 

oar. 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 

6. 

I ask not the pleasures that riches.supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the young bride with her long flow- 
ing hair 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 

7. 

I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 

Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall 
soothe ; 

Let her bring from the chamber her many- 
toned lyre. 

And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 



Remember the moment when Previsa fell.i 
The shrieks of the conquered, the conquerors' 

yell; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we 

shared, 
The wealthy we slaughtered, the lovely we 

spared. 

9- 
I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who would serve the 

Vizier : 
Since the days of our prophet the Crescent 

ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

10. 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let the yellow-haired 2 Giaours 3 view his 

horse-tail 4 with dread ; 
When his Delhis^ come dashing in blood 

o'er the banks. 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite 

ranks ! 



out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic 
and Italian. 

1 It was taken by storm from the French. 

2 Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 

3 Infidel. 

* The insignia of a Pacha. 

6 Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 



II. 

Selictar ! 6 unsheathe then our chief's scimitar : 
Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore. 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 7 
Immortal, though no more; though fallen. 

great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scattered children 

forth. 
And long accustomed bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await. 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from 

the tomb ? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 8 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour 

which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain. 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish 

hand, 
From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in 

deed, unmanned. 

LXXV. 

In all save form alone, how changed ! and 

who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each 

eye. 
Who but would deem their bosoms burned 

anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage. 
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's 

mournful page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
Who would be free themselves must strike 
the blo w ? 

6 Sword-bearer. 

^ Some thoughts on the present state of Greece 
will be found in the Appendix to this Canto, .Note 

[DJ- 

8 Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of 
Athens, has still considerable remains: it was seized 
by Thrasybulus, previous to the expulsion of the 
Thirty. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



289 



By their right arms the conquest must be 

wrought ? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers 

low, 
But not for you will freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your 

foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still 

the same ; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years 

of shame. 

LXXVII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Qthman's race again may 

wrest ; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ; i 
Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest 
The prophet's 2 tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the 

West ; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil. 
But slave succeed to slave through years of 

endless toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days 

begin, 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear. 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all. 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than 

thine. 
Oh Stamboul 1 once the empress of their 

reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's 

shrine. 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her 

throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such 

song. 
As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus 

along.3 



1 When taken by the Latins, and retained for 
several years. 

2 Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago 
by the Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 

2 [Of Constantinople Byron says, — "I have 
seen the ruins of Athens, of Ephestis, and Delphi; 
I have traversed great part of Turkey, and many 
other parts of Europe, and some of Asia; but I 



LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore, 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her 

tone, 
And timely echoed back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting 

shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the 

wave, 
'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly 

throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Till sparkling billows seemed to light the banks 

they lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the 

land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or 

home. 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may with- 
stand. 
Or gently prest, returned the pressure still : 
Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy 

band. 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will. 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life's 
years of ill ! 

LXXXII. 

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret 

pain. 
Even through the closest searment half be- 
trayed ? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to reecho all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness of thegamesome crowd 
Is source of wa>-ward thought and stern dis- 
dain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the 
shroud ! 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of 

Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can 

boast : 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace. 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he 

lost. 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe 

thee most ; 



never beheld a work of nature or art which yielded 
an impression like the prospert on each side, from 
the Seven Towers to the end of the Golden Horn. "J 



200 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Their birth, their blood, and that sublime 
record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate 

'^°^^"- LXXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again. 
When Athens' children are with hearts en- 
dued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to 

men, 
Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till 

then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a 

state ; 
An houi may lay it in the dust : and when 
Can man its shattered splendor renovate. 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time 
and Fate! ^^^^^^^ 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe. 
Land, --vf lost gods and godlike men ! art 

.'jou ! 
/tiy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,i 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now ; 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth. 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave,2 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff,-^ and gleams along the wave • 



^ On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, 
the snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding 
the intense heat of the summer; but I never saw it 
lie on the plains, even in winter. 

- Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble 
was dug that constructed the public edifices of 
Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. 
An immense cave, formed by the quarries, still re- 
mains, and will till the end of time. 

•^ In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Mar- 
athon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape 
Colonna. To the antiquary and artist, sixteen col- 
umns are an inexhaustible source of observation 
and design; to the philosopher, the supposed scene 
of some of Plato's conversations will not be unwel- 
come; and the traveller will be struck with the 
beauty of the prospect over " Isles that croivii the 
^gean deep:"' but for an Englishman, Colonna 
has yet an additional interest, as the actual spot of 
Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are for- 
gotten, in the recollection of Falconer and Camp- 
bell:— 
"Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 

The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a 
great distance. In two journeys which I made, and 
one voyage to Cape Colonna, the view from either 
side, by land, was less striking than the approach 
from the isles. In our second land excursion, we 



Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten 

grave, 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass. 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and 

sigh "Alas ! " 

LXXXVII. 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy 

fields. 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus 

yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress 

builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
Still in his beam Mendeii's marbles glare ; 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is 

fair. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy 

ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould. 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads 

around. 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told. 
Till the sense aches witli gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt 

upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen 

and wold 
Defies the power which crushed thy temples 

gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray 

Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless 
fame, 



had a narrow escape from a party of Mainotes, 
concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told 
afterwards, by one of their prisoners, subsequently 
ransomed, that they were deterred from attacking 
us by the appearance of my two Albanians: conjec- 
turing very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had 
a complete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they 
remained stationary, and thus saved our party, 
which was too small to kave opposed any effectual 
resistance. Colonna is no less a resort of painters 
than of pirates ; there 

" The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
And makes degraded nature picturesque." 

{See Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, etc.) 
But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done 
that for herself. I was fortunate e?iough to engage 
a very superior German artist; and hope to renew 
my acquaintance with this and many other Levan- 
tine scenes, by the arrival of his performances. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



291 



The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
F'irst bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' 

sword, 
As on the rrtorn to distant Glory dear. 
When Marathon became a magic word ; i 
Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's 

career. 

xc. 
The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; 
Mountains above. Earth's, Ocean's plain 

below ; 
Death in the fiont. Destruction in the rear I 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth 

here ? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallowed 

ground. 
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger I 

spurns around. 



Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, 

throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast. 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal 

tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a 

shore ; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore. 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 



The parted bosom clings to wonted liome. 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome 

hearth ; 
He that is lonely, hither let him roam. 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth : 
But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his Ijirth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred 

side. 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and 

Persian died. 



1 " Siste Viator — heroa calcas! " was the epitaph 
on the famous Count Merci ; — what then must be 
our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the 
two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon? The 
principal barrow has recently been opened by 
Fauvel: few or no relics, as vases, etc. were found 
by the excavator. The plain of Marathon was 
offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand 
piastres, about nine hundred pounds!, Alas! — 
" Expende — quot lihras in duce summo — inven- 
ii's! " — was the dust of Miltiades worth n» more? 
It could scarcely have fetched less if sold by ^veiglit. 



XCIII. 

Let such approach this consecrated land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! 
Not for such purpose Were these altars 

placed : 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced. 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth 

was reared. 
By every honest joy of love and life endeared ! 

xciv. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious 

lays. 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial 

praise. 
Since cold each kinder heart that might 

approve, 
And none are left to please when none are left 

to love. 

xcv. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely 

one! 
Whom youth and youth's affections bound 

to me; 
Who did for me what none beside have 

done. 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor stayed to welcome here thy wanderer 

home. 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more 

shall see — 
Would they had never been, or were to 

come! 
Would he had ne'er returned to find fresh 

cause to roam ! 

xcvr. 

Oh I ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 

How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 

And clings to thoughts now better far re- 
moved 1 

But Time shall tear thy shadow from me 
last. 

All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! 
thou hast ; 

The parent, friend, and now the more than 
friend : 

Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 

And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
Hath snatched the little joy that life had yet 
to lend. 



292 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XCVII. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly 

loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they 

cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled 

sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What is the worst of woes tliat wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the 

brow ? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's 

page, ' 

And be alone on earth, as I am now. l 



[This stanza was written October 



i8i] 



Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, 
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes de- 
stroyed : 
Roll on, vain days 1 full reckless may ye flow. 
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul en- 
joyed. 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years 
alloyed. 

upon which day the poet, in a letter to a friend, 
says, — " It seems as though I were to experience 
in my youth the greatest misery of age. My friends 
fall around me, and I shall be left a lonely tree 
before I am withered. Other men can always take 
refuge in their families: I have no resource but my 
own reflections, and they present no prospect here 
or hereafter, except the selfish satisfaction of sur- 
viving my friends. I am indeed very wretched." 
In reference to this stanza, " Surely," said Professor 
Clarke to the author of the ' Pursuits of Literature,' 
" Lord Byron cannot have experienced such keen 
anguish as these exquisite allusions to what older 
men may have felt seem to denote." — " I fear he 
has," answered Matthias; — '^ he could not other- 
zvhe have written such apoent."} 



APPENDIX TO CANTO THE SECOND. 



Note [A]. See p. 278. 

" To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath 
spared.'^ — Stanza xii. line 2. 

At this moment (January 3, 1810), besides what 
has been already deposited in London, an Hydriot 
vessel is in the Pyraeus to receive every portable 
relic. Thus, as I heard a young Greek observe, in 
common with many of his countrymen — for, lost 
as they are, they yet feel on this occasion — thus 
may Lord Elgin boast of having ruined Athens. 
An Italian painter of the first eminence, named 
Lusieri, is the agent of devastation; and like the 
Greekyf wrt'^r of Verres in Sicily, who followed the 
same profession, he has proved the able instrument 
of plunder. Between this artist and the French 
Consul Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the remains 
for his own government, there is now a violent dis- 
pute concerning a car employed in their convey- 
ance, the wheel of which — I wish they were both 
broken upon it — has been locked up by the Consul, 
and Lusieri has laid his complaint before the Way- 
wode. Lord Elgin has been extremely happy in 
his choice of Signor Lusieri. During a residence 
of ten years in Athens, he never had the curiosity 
to proceed as far as Sunium (now Caplonna), till 
he accompanied us in our second excursion. How- 
ever, his works, as far as they go, are most beauti- 
ful : but they are almost all unfinished. While he 
and his patrons confine themselves to tasting medals, 
appreciating carneos, sketching columns, and cheap- 
ening gems, their little absurdities are as harmless 
as insect or fox hunting, maiden speechifying, 
barouche-driving, or any such pastime; but when 
they carry away three nr four shiploads of the most 



valuable and massy relics that time and barbarism 
have left to the most injured and most celebrated of 
cities; when they destroy, in a vain attempt to tear 
down, those works which have been the admiration 
of ages, I know no motive which can excuse, no 
name which can designate, the perpetrators of this 
dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the 
crimes laid to the charge of Verres, that he had 
plundered .Sicily, in the manner since imitated at 
Athens. The most unblushing impudence could 
hardly go further than to affix the name of its plun- 
derer to the walls of the Acropolis; while the wan- 
ton and useless defacement of the whole range of 
the basso-relievos, in one compartment of the 
temple, will never permit that name to be pro- 
nounced by an observer without execration. 

On this occasion I speak impartially: I am not 
a collector or admirer of collections, consequently 
no rival; but I have some early prepossession in 
favor of Greece, and do not think the honor of Eng- 
land advanced by plunder, whether of India or 
Attica. 

Another noble Lord has done belter, because he 
has done less: but some others, more or less noble, 
yet "all honorable men," have done best, because, 
after a deal of excavation, and execration, briberv 
to the Waywode, mining and countermining, they 
have done nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, 
and wine-shed, which almost ended in bloodshed! 
Lord E.'s "prig" — see Jonathan Wdd for the 
definition of " priggism " — quarrelled with another, 
Gropiiis^ by name (a very good name too for his 



^ This Sr. Gropius was employed by a noble 
Lord for the sole purpose of sketching, in which he 



APPENDIX TO CANTO THE SECOND. 



293 



business), and muttered something about satisfac- j 
tiop, in a verbal answer to a note of the poor Prus- 
sian : this was stated at table to Gropius, who 
laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. The i 
rivals were not reconciled when I left Greece. I 
have reason to remember their squabble, for they 
wanted to make me their arbitrator. 



Note [B]. See p. 282. 

" Laitd of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men .'" 
Stanza xxxvii. lines 5 and 6. 

Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria, 
Chaonia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish 
word for Alexander; and the celebrated Scanderbeg 
(Lord Alexander) is alluded to in the third an! 
fourth lines of the thirty-eighth stanza. I do not 
know whether I am correct in making Scanderbeg 
the countryman of Alexander, who was born at 
Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gibbon terms him so, 
and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in speaking of his 
exploits. 

Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country 
"within sight of Italy is less known than the inte- 
rior of America." Circumstances, of little conse- 
quence to mention, led Mr. Hobhouse and myself 
into that country before we visited any other part 
of the Ottoman dominions ; and with the exception 
of Major Leake, then officially resident at Joannina, 
no other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond 
the capital into the interior, as that gentleman very 
lately assured me. AH Pacha was at that time 
(October, 1809) carrying on war against Ibrahim 
Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, a strong for- 
tress which he was then besieging; on our arrival 
af Joannina we were invited to Tepaleni, his high- 
pess's birthplace, and favorite Serai, only one day's 
distance from Berat; at this juncture the Vizier 
had made it his head-quarters. After some stay in 
the capital, we accordmgly followed; but though 
furnished with every accommodation, and escorted 
by one of the Vizier's secretaries, we were nine days 
(on account of the rains) in accomplishing a journey 
which, on our return, barely occupied four. On 
our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro and 
Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in 
size; and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to 
the scenery in the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, 
the frontier village of Epirus and Albania Proper. 

excels; but I am sorry to say, that he has, through 
the abused sanction of that most respectable name, 
been treading at humble distance in the steps of 
Sr. Lusieri. — A shipful of his trophies was detained, 
and I believe confiscated, at Constantinople, in 
1810. I am most happy to be now enabled to state, 
that " this was not in his bond; " that he was em- 
ployed solely as a painter, and that his noble patron 
disavows all connection with him, except as an 
artist. If the error in the first and second edition 
of this poem has given the noble Lord a moment's 
pain, I am very sorry for it: Sr. Gropius has as- j 
sumed for years the name of his agent; and though | 
I cannot much condemn myself for sharing in the 
mistake of so many, I am happy in being one of 
the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have as much 
pleasure m contradicting this as I felt regret in 
stating it. — Note to third edition. 



On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to 
descant, because this will be done so much better 
by my fellow-traveller, in a work which may prob- 
ably precede this in publication, that I as little 
wish to follow as I would to anticipate him. But 
some few observations are necessary to the text. 
The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by 
their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, 
in dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very 
mountains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder cli- 
mate. The kilt, though white; the spare, active 
form; their dialect, Celtic in its sound, and their 
hardy habits, all carried me back to Morvcn. No 
nation are so detested and dreaded by their neigh- 
bors as the Albanese; the Greeks hardly regard 
them as Christians, or the Turks as Moslems; and 
in fact they are a mixture of both, and sometimes 
neither. Their habits are predatory — all are 
armed; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Mon- 
tenegrins, Chimariots, and Gegde?, are treacherous; 
the other differ ?omewhat in garb, and essentially 
in character. As far as my own experience goes, 
I can speak favorably. I was attended by two, aii 
Infidel and a Mussulman, to Constantinople and 
every other part of Turkey which came within my 
observation; and more faithful in peril, or indefati- 
gable in service, are rarely to be found. The In- 
fidel was named Basilius, the Moslem, Dervish 
Tahiri; the former a man of middle age, and the 
latter about my own. Basili was strictly charged 
by Ali Pacha in person to attend us; and Dervish 
was one of fifty who accompanied us through the 
forests of Acarnania to the banks of Achelous, and 
onward to Messalonghi in i^tolia. There I took 
him into my own service, and never had occasion 
to repent it till the moment of my departure. 

AVhen in 1810, after the departure of my friend 
Mr. Hobhouse for England, I was seized with a 
severe fever in the Morea, these men saved my life 
by frightening away my physician, whose throat 
they threatened to cut if I was not cured within a 
given time. To this consolatory assurance of pos- 
thumous retribution, and a resolute refusal of Dr. 
Romanelli's prescriptions, I attributed my recovery. 
I had left my last remaining English servant at 
Athens; my dragoman was as ill as myself, and my 
poor Arnaouts nursed me with an attention which 
would have done honor to civilization. They had 
a variety of adventures; for the Moslem, Dervish, 
being a remarkably handsome man, was always 
squabbling with the husbands of Athens; insomuch 
that four of the principal Turks paid me a visit of 
remonstrance at the Convent, on the subject of his 
having taken a woman from the bath — whom he 
had lawfully bought however — a thing quite con- 
trary to etiquette. Basili also was extremely gal- 
lant amongst his own persuasion, and had the 
greatest veneration for the church, mixed with the 
highest contempt of churchmen, whom he cuffed 
upon occasion in a most heterodox manner. Yet 
he never passed a church without crossing himself; 
and I remember the risk he ran in entering St. 
Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once been a 
place of his worship. On remonstrating with him 
on his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably an- 
swered, " Our church is holy, our priests are 
thieves; " and then he crossed himself as usual, 
and boxed the ears of the first " papas " who refused 
to assist in any required operation, as was always 
found to be necessary where a priest had any influ- 
ence with the Cogia Bashi of his village. Indeed, 



294 



CHILDE HAkOLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



a more abandoned race of miscreants cannot exist 
than the lower orders of the Greek clergy. 

When preparations were made for my return, 
my Albanians were summoned to receive their pay. 
Basili took his with an awkward show of regret at 



.vay 
t for 



quarters with his bag of piastres. I sent for Der- 
vish, but for some time he was not to be found; at 
last he entered, just as Signor Logotheti, father to 
the ci-devant Anglo-consul of Athens, and some 
other of my Greek acquaintances, paid me a visit. 
Dervish took the money, but on a sudden dashed it 
to the ground; and clasping his hands, which he 
raised to his forehead, rushed out of the room 
weeping bitterly. From that moment to the hour 
of my embarkation, he continued his lamentations, 
and all our efforts to console him only produced this 
answer, " M' o.(^iiv^\." " He leaves me." Signor 
Logotheti, who never wept before for any thing less 
than the loss of a part (about the fourth of a farth- 
ing), melted; the padre of the convent, my attend- 
ants, my visitors, — and I verily believe that even 
Sterne's " foolish, fat scullion " would have left her 
" fish-kettle," to sympathize with the unaffected 
and unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. 

For my own part, when I remembered that, a 
short time before my departure from England, a 
noble and most intimate associate had excused him- 
self from taking leave of me because he had to at- 
tend a relation " to a milliner's," I felt no less sur- 
prised than humiliated by the present occurrence 
and the past recollection. That Dervish would 
leave me with some regret was to be expected: 
when master and man have been scrambling over 
the mountains of a dozen provinces together, they 
are unwilling to separate; but his present feelings, 
contrasted with his native ferocity, improved my 
opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost 
feudal fidelity is frequent amongst them. One day, 
on our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in 
my service gave him a push in some dispute about 
the baggage, which he unluckily mistook for a 
blow; he spoke not, but sat down leaning his head 
upon his hands. Foreseeing the consequences, we 
endeavored to explain away the affront, which pro- 
duced the following answer: — "I have been a 
robber; I «;« a soldier; no captain ever struck me; 
yoii are my master, I have eaten your bread, but 
by Mrt/ bread! (an usual oath) had it been other- 
wise, I would have stabbed the dog your servant, 
and gone to the mountains." So the affair ended, 
but from that day forward he never thoroughly for- 
gave the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. Der- 
vish excelled in the dance of his country, conjectured 
to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic: be that as 
it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. 
It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the 
dull round-about of the Greeks, of which our Athe- 
nian party had so many specimens. 

The Aloanians in general (1 do not mean the 
cultivators of the earth in the provinces, who have 
also that appellation, but the mountaineers) have a 
fine cast of countenance; and the most beautiful 
women I ever beheld, in stature and in features, we 
S2i\f levelling the road broken down by the torrents 
between Delvinachi and Libochabo. Their manner 
of walking is truly theatrical: but this strut is prob- 
ably the effect of the capote, or cloak, depending 
from one shoulder. Their long hair reminds you of 
the Spartans, and their courage in desultory war- 
fare is unquestionable. Though they have some 



cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw a good 
Arnaout horseman; my own preferred the English 
saddles, which, however, they could never keep. 
But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 



Note[C]. 5^^ p. 287. 
" While thus in concert," etc. 

Stanza Ixxii. line last. 

As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dia- 
lect of the Illyric, I here insert two of their most 
popular choral songs, which are generally chanted 
in dancing by men or women indiscriminately. The 
first words are merely a kind of chorus without 
meaning, like some in our own and all other lan- 
guages. 



Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
Naciarura, popuso. 



Naciarura na civin 
Ha pen derini ti hin. 



Ha pe uderi escrotini 
Ti vin ti mar servetini. 



Caliriote me surme 
Ea ha pe pse dua tive. 



Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
Gi egem spirta esimiro. 



Caliriote vu le funde 
Ede vete tunde tunde. 



Caliriote me surme 
Ti mi4)ut e poi mi le. 



Se ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. 



Va le ni il che cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 



Plu hari ti tirete 

Flu huron cia pra seti. 



Lo, Lo, I come, I come; 
be thou silent. 



I come, I run, open th2 
door that I may enter. 



Open the door by halves, 
that I may take my tur- 
ban. 

4- 

Caliriotes^ with the dark 
eyes, open the gate that 
I may enter. 



Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my 
soul. 



An Arnaout girl, in costly 
garb, walks with grace- 
ful pride. 



Caliriote maid of the dark 
eyes, give me a kiss. 



If I have kissed thee, what 
hast thou gained.'' My 
soul is consumed with 
fire. 

9- 

Dance lightly, more gen- 
tly, and gently still. 



Make not so much dust to 
destroy your embroid- 
ered hose. 



The last stanza would puzzle a commentator: the 
men have certainly buskins of the most beautiful 
texture, but the ladies (to whom the above is sup- 

^ The Albanese, particularly tiie women, are fre- 



APPENDIX TO CANTO THE SECOND. 



295 



posed to be addressed) have nothing under their 
little yellow boots and slippers but a well-turned and 
sometimes very white ankle. The Arnaout girls 
are much handsomer than the Greeks, and their 
dress is far more picturesque. They preserve their 
shape much longer also, from being always in the 
open air. It is to be observed, that the Arnaout is 
r\ot z ivrijff en language: the words of this song, 
therefore, as well as the one which follows, are spelt 
according to their pronunciation. They are copied 
by one who speaks and understands the dialect 
perfectly, and who is a native of Athens. 



Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. 



'. am wounded by thy love, 
and have loved but to 
scorch myself. 



Ah vaisisso mi privi lof- Thou hast consumed me ! 

se Ah, maid! thou hast 

Si mi rini mi la vosse. struck me to the heart. 



Uti tasa roba stua 
Sitti eve tulati dua. 



Roba stinori ssidua 
Qu mi sini vetti dua. 



Qurmini dua civileni 
Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. 



Utara pisa vaisisso me 
simi rin ti hapti 

Eti mi hire a piste si gui 
dendroi tiltati. 



Udi vura udorini udiri 
cicova cilti mora 

Udorini talti hollna u 
ede caimoni mora. 



I have said I wish no dow- 
ry, but thine eyes and 
eye lashes. 



The accursed dowry I 
want not, but thee only. 



Give me thy charms, and 
let the portion feed the 
flames. 

6. 

I have loved thee, maid, 
with a sincere soul, but 
thou hast left me like a 
withered tree. 



If I have placed my hand 
on thy bosom, what 
have I gained? my 
hand is withdrawn, but 
retains the flame. 



I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a 
different measure, ought to belong to another bal- 
lad. An idea something similar to the thought in 
the last lines was expressed by Socrates, whose 
arm having come in contact with one of his " vtto- 
KoA-TTLOi," Critobulus or Cleobulus, the philosopher 
complained of a shooting pain as far as his shoulder 
for some days after, and therefore very properly re- 
solved to teach his disciples in future without 
touching them. 



Note [D]. 5"^^ p. 288. 

" Fair Greece! sad relic of departed ivorth ! 

Immortal, though no more; though fallen, 

great!" — Stanza Ixxiii. lines i and 2. 

quentljr termed " Caliriotes; " for what reason I in- 
quired in vain. 



Before I say any thing about a city of which 
everybody, traveller or not, has tho;ight it neces- 
sary to say something, 1 will request Miss Owen- 
son, when she next borrows an Athenian heroine 
for her four volumes, to have the goodness to marry 
her to somebody more of a gentleman than a " Dis- 
dar Aga" (who by the by is not an Aga), the most 
impolite of petty officers, the greatest pairon of 
larceny Athens ever saw (except Lord E.), and the 
unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a hand- 
some annual stipend of 150 piastres (eight pounds 
sterling), out of which he has only to pay his garri-' 
son, the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-iegi lated 
Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was 
once the cause of the husband of " Ida of Athens " 
nearly suffering the bastinado; and because the 
said " Disdar " is a turbulent husband, and beats 
his wife; so that I exhort and beseech Miss Owen- 
son to sue for a separate maintenance in behalf of 
" Ida." Having premised thus much, on a matter 
of such import to the readers of romances, I may 
now leave Ida, to mention her birthplace. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all 
those associations which it would be pedantic and 
superfluous to recapitulate, the very situation of 
Athens would render it the favorite of all who have 
eyes for art or nature. The climate, to me at least, 
appeared a perpetual spring; during eight months 
I never passed a day without being as many hours 
on horseback: rain is extrem.ely rare, snow never 
lies in the plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable 
rarity. In Spain, Portugal, and every part of the 
East which I visited, except Ionia and Attica, I 
perceived no such superiority of climate to our own; 
and at Constantinople, where I passed May, June, 
and part of July (1810), you might "damn the 
climate, and complain of spleen," five days out of 
seven. 

The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, 
but the moment you pass the isthmus in the direc- 
tion of Megara the change is strikingly perceptible. 
But I fear Hesiod will still be found correct in his 
description of a Boeotian winter. 

We found at Livadia an " esprit fort " in a Greek 
bishop, of all freethinkers! Tliis worthy hypocrite 
rallied his own religion with great intiepidity (but 
not before his flock), and talked of a mass as a 
" coglioneria." It was impossible to think better of 
him for this; but, for a Boeotian, he -was brisk with 
all his absurdity. This phenomenon (with the ex- 
ception indeed of Thebes, the remains of Chseronea, 
the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its 
nominal cave of Trophonius) was the only remark- 
able thing we saw before we passed Mount Cith- 
aeron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mil! : at least my 
companion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly 
and classical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the 
fountain of Dirce, and anybody who tliinks it worth 
while may contradict him. At Castri we drank of 
half a dozen streamlets, some not of the purest, 
before we decided to our satisfaction which was the 
true Castalian, and even that had a villanous twang, 
probably from the snow, though it did not throw us 
into an epic fever, like poor Dr. Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still 
exist, the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, 
the .^gean, and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye 
at once; in my opinion, a more glorious prospect 
than even Cintra or Istambol. Not the view from 



296 



CH/LDE HAROLD'S PILCRTMAGK. 



the Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the more 
distant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so supe- 
rior in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but 
excepting the view from the monastery of Megas- 
pelion (which is inferior to Zitza in a command of 
country) and the descent from the mountains on 
the way from Tripoli tza to Argos, Arcadia has 
little to recommend it beyond the name. 

" Sternitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos." 

Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none 
but an Argive, and (with reverence be it spoken) it 
does not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices 
of Statins, " In mediis audit duo litora campis," did 
actually hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of 
Corinth, he had better ears than have ever been 
worn in such a journey since. 

" Athens," says a celebrated topographer, " is still 
the most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it may 
Q>{ Greece, but not of the Greeks ; for Joannina in 
Epirus is universally allowed, amongst themselves, 
to be superior in the wealth, refinement, learning, 
and dialect of its inhabitants. The Athenians are 
remarkable for their cunning; and the lower orders 
are not improperly characterized in that proverb, 
which classes them with " the Jews of Salonica, 
and the Turks of the Negropont." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, etc., there 
was never a difference of opinion in their estimate 
of the Greek character, though on all other topics 
they disputed with great acrimony. 

M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed 
thirty years principally at Athens, and to whose 
talents as an artist, and manners as a gentleman, 
none who have known him can refuse their testi- 
mony, has frequently declared in my hearing, that 
the Greeks do not deserve to be emancipated; rea- 
soning on the grounds of their " national and indi- 
vidual depravity!" while he forgot that such de- 
pravity is to be attributed to causes which can only 
be removed by the measure he reprobates. 

M. Roque, a Fi'ench merchant of respectability 
long settled in Athens, asserted with the most amus- 
ing gravity, " Sir, they are the same ca7iaille that 
existed in the days of The/m'stocles.' " an alarm- 
ing remark to the "Laudator temporis acti." The 
ancients banished Themistocles; the moderns cheat 
Monsieur Roque: thus great men have ever been 
treated ! 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and 
most of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, etc. of 
passage, came over by degrees to their opinion, on 
much the same grounds that a Turk in England 
would condemn the nation by wholesale, because 
he was wronged by his lacquey, and overcharged 
by his washerwoman. 

^ Certainly 'it was not a little staggering when the 
Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest dema- 
gogues of the day, who divide between theia the 
power of Pericles and the- popularity of Cleon, and 
puzzle the poor Waywode with perpetual differ- 
ences, agreed in the utter condemnation, "nulla 
virtute redemptum," of the Greeks in general, and 
of the Athenians in particular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard 
it, knowing as I do, that there be now in MS. no 
less than five tours of the first magnitude and of 
the most threatening aspect, all in typographical 
array, by persons of wit, and honor, and regular I 



common-place books: but, if I may say this with 
out offence, it seems to me rather hard to declare so 
positively and pertinacious!}', as almost everybody 
has declared, that the Greeks, because they are 
very bad, will never be better. 

Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by theii 
panegyrics and projects: but, on the other hand, 
De Pauw and Thornton have debased the Greeks 
beyond their demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent; they will 
never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid 
they ever should! but they may be subjects without 
being slaves. Our colonies are not independent, 
but they are free aud industrious, and such may 
Greece be hereafter. 

At present, like the Catholics of Ireland and the 
Jews throughout the world, and such other cud- 
gelled and heterodox people, they suffer all the 
moral and physical ills that can afflict humanity. 
Their life is a struggle against truth; they are 
vicious in their own defence. They are so unused 
to kindness, that when they occasionally meet with 
it tliey look upon it with suspicion, as a dog often 
beaten snaps at your fingers if you attempt to caress 
hiai. " They are ungrateful, notoriously, abomi- 
nably ungrateful ! " — this is the general cry. Now, in 
the name of Nemesis! for what are they to be grate- 
ful.'' Where is the human being that ever conferred 
a benefit on Greek or Greeks? They are to be 
grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to the 
Franks for their broken promises and lying coun- 
sels. They are to be grateful to the artist who 
engraves their ruins, and to the antiquary who car- 
ries them away; to the traveller whose janissan,' 
flogs them, and to the scribbler whose journal 
abuses them! This is the amount of their obliga- 
tions to foreigners. 

II. 
Franciscan Convent, Athens, ) 
January 23, 1811. \ 

Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of 
the earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which 
yet exist in different countries; whose inhabitants, 
however divided in religion and manners, almost 
all agree in oppression. 

The English have at last compassionated their 
negroes, and under a less bigoted government, may 
probably one day release their Catholic Irethren: 
but the interposition of foreigners alone can emanci- 
pate the Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to liave as 
small a chance of redemption from the Turks, as 
the Jews have from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than 
enough; at least the younger, men of Europe de- 
vote much of their time to the study of the Greek 
writers and history, which would be more usefully 
spent in mastering their own. Of the moderns, we 
are perhaps more neglectful than they deserve; and 
while every man of any pretensions to learning is 
tiring out his youth, and often his age, in the study 
of the language and of the harangues of the Athe- 
nian demagogues in favor of freedom, the real or 
supposed descendants of these sturdy republican-^ 
are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, al- 
though a very slight effort is required to strike ofl 
their chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their 
rising again to their pristine superiority, would be 
ridiculous: as the rest of the world must resume its 
barbarism, after reasserting the sovereignty oi 



APPENDIX TO CANTO THE SECOND. 



297 



Greece: but there seems to be no very great ob- 
stacle, except in the apathy of the Franks, to their 
becoming an useful dependency, or even a free 
state with a proper guarantee; — under correction, 
however, be it spoken, for many and well-informed 
men doubt the practicability even of tiiis. 

The Greeks have never lost their hope, though 
they are now more divided in opinion on the sub- 
ject of their probable deliverers. Religion recom- 
mends the Russians; but they have twice been 
deceived and abandoned by that power, and the 
dreadful lesson they received after the' Muscovite 
desertion in the Morea has never been forgotten. 
The French they dislike, although the subjugation 
of the rest of Europe will, probably, be attended by 
the deliverance of continental Greece. The island- 
ers look to the English for succor, as they have very 
lately possessed themselves of the Ionian republic, 
Corfu excepted. But whoever appear with arms in 
their hands will be welcome; and when that day 
arrives. Heaven have mercy on the Ottomans, they 
cannot expect it from the Giaours. 

But instead of considering what they have been, 
and speculating on what they may be, let us look 
at them as they are. 

And here it is impossible to reconcile the contra- 
riety of opinions: some, particularly the merchants, 
decrying the <ireeks in the strongest language; 
others, generally travellers, turning periods in their 
eulogy, and publishing very curious speculations 
grafted on their former state, which can have no 
more effect on their present lot, than the existence 
of the Incas on the future fortunes of Peru. 

One very ingenious person terms them the " nat- 
ural allies of Englishmen; " another no less ingen- 
ious, will not allow them to be the allies of anybody, 
and denies their very descent from the ancients; a 
third, more ingenious than either, builds a Greek 
empire on a Russian foundation, and realizes (on 
paper) all the chimeras of Catharine II. As to the 
question of their descent, what can it import whether 
the Mainotes are the lineal Laconians or not.'' or 
the present Athenians as indigenous as the bees of 
Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to which they 
once likened themselves; what Englishman cares if 
he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan 
blood? or who, except a Welshman, is afflicted with 
a desire of being descended from Caractacus? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the 
good things of this world, as to render even their 
claims to antiquity an object of envy; it is very 
cruel, then, in Mr. Thornttm to disturb them in the 
possession of all that time has left them; viz. their 
pedigree, of which they are the more tenacious, as 
it is all they can call their own. It would be worth 
while to publish together, and compare, the works 
of Messrs. Thornton and De Pauw, Eton and Son- 
nini; paradox on one side, and prejudice on the 
other. Mr. Thornton conceives himself to have 
claims to public confidence from a fourteen years' 
residence at Pera; perhaps he may on the subject 
of the Turks, but this can give him no more insight 
into the real state of Greece and her inhabitants, 
than as many years spent in Wapping into that of 
the Western Highlands. 

The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal ; and 
if Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden 
Horn than his brother merchants are accustomed to 
do, I should place no great reliance on his infor- 
mation. I actually heard one of these gentlemen 
boast of their little general intercourse with the 



city, and assert of himself, with an air of triumph, 
that he had been but four times at Constantinople 
in as many years. 

As to Mr. Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea 
with Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of 
Greece as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack 
would of Johnny Gfoat's house. Upon what grounds 
then does he arrogate the right of condemning by 
wholesale a body of men, of whom he can know 
little? It is rather a curious circumstance that Mr. 
Thornton, who so lavishly dispraises Pouqiieville 
on every occasion of mentioning the Turks, n^s yet 
recourse to him as authority on the Greeks, and 
terms him an impartial observer. Now, Dr. Pouque- 
ville is as little entitled to that appellation, as Mr. 
Thornton to confer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of infor- 
mation on the subject of the Greeks, and in particu- 
lar their literature; nor is there any probability of 
our being better acquainted, till our intercourse 
becomes more intimate, or their independence con- 
firmed : the relations of passing travellers are as 
little to be depended on as the invectives of an.^ry 
factors; but till something more can be attained, 
we must be content with the little to be acquired 
from similar sources. ^ 

However defective these may be, they are pref- 
erable to the paradoxes of men who have read 
superficially of the ancients, and seen nothing of 
the moderns, such as De Pauw; who, when he as- 
serts that the British breed of horses is ruined by 
Newmarket, and that the Spartans were cowards in 
the field, betrays an equal knowledge of English 

1 A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and 
Dr. Pouqueville, who have been guilty between 
them of sadly clipping the Sultan's Turkish. 

Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem 
who swallowed corrosive sublimate in such quanti- 
ties that he acquired the name of " Sideyinan 
Yeyeii," i.e. quoth the Doctor, " Snleytnau, the 
eater of corrosive sublimate." " Aha," thinks 
Mr. Thornton, (angry with the Doctor for the 
fiftieth time,) " have I caught you?" — Then, in a 
note twice the thickness of the Doctor's anecdote, 
he questions the Doctor's proficiency in the Turk- 
ish tongue, and his veracity in his own. — " For," 
observes Mr. Thornton (after inflicting on us the 
tough participle of a Turkish verb), "it means 
nothing more than Suleyvian the eater,'^ and 
quite cashiers the supplementary " subliinate.^' 
Now both are right, and both are wrong. If Mr. 
Thornton, when he next resides " fourteen years in 
the factory," will consult his Turkish dictionary, 
or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will 
discover that " Suleyma'n yeyen,'^ put together 
discreetly, mean the " Sivallower of sublimate ^^ 
without any ^* Suleyman'^ in the case: '•'' Suley- 
7na" signifying ^''corrosive sublimate,'^ and not 
being a proper name on this occasion, although it 
be an orthodox name enough with the addition of 
«. After Mr . Thornton's frequent hints of pro- 
found Orientalism, he might have foiuid this out 
before he sang such pagans over Dr. Pouqueville. 

After this, I think " Travellers versus Factors" 
shall be our motto, though the above Mr. Thornton 
has condemned " hoc genus omne," for mistake 
and misrepresentation. " Ne Sutor ultra crcpi- 
dam," " No merchant beyond his bales." N.B. 
For the benefit of Mr. Thornton, " Sutor" is not a 
proper name. 



298 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



horses and Spartan men. His " philosophical ob- 
servations" have a much better claim to the title 
of " poetical." It could not be expected that he 
who so liberally condemns some of the most cele- 
brated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy 
on the modern Greeks; and it fortunately happens, 
that the absurdity of his hypotiiesis on their fore- 
fathers refutes his sentence on themselves. 

Let us trust, then, that, in spite of the prophe- 
cies of De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, 
there is a reasonable hope of the redemption of a 
race of men, who, whatever may be the errors of 
their religion and policy, have been amply pun- 
ished by three centuries and a half of captivity. 



Athens, Franciscan Convent, / 
March 17, 1811. \ 

" I must have some talk with this learned Theban." 

Some time after my return from Constantinople 
to this city, I received the thirty-first number of the 
Edinburgh Review as a great favor, and certainly 
at this distance an acceptable one, from the captain 
of an English frigate off Salamis. In that number. 
Art. 3, containing the review of a French transla- 
tion of Strabo, there are introduced some remarks 
on the modern Greeks and their literature, with a 
short account of Coray, a co-translator in the French 
version. On those remarks I mean to ground a fev/ 
observations; and the spot where I now write will, 
I hope, be sufficient excuse for introducing them in 
a work in some degree connected with the subject. 
Coray, the most celebrated of living Greeks, at 
least among the Franks, was born at Scio (in the 
Review, Smyrna is stated, I have reason to think, 
incorrectly), and besides the translation of Beccaria 
and other works mentioned by the Reviewer, has 
published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if 1 may 
trust the assurance of some Danish travellers lately 
arrived from Paris; but the latest we have seen 
here in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zoli- 
kogloou.i Coray has recently been involved in an 
unpleasant controversy with M. Gail,- a Parisian 
commentator and editor of some translations from 
the Greek poets, in consequence of the Institute 
having awarded him the prize for his version of 
Hippocrates " Ilepl vha.Tuiv" etc. to the disparage- 
ment, and consequently displeasure, of the said 
Gail. To his exertions, literary and patriotic, great 
praise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that praise 
ought not to be withheld from the two brothers 
Zosimado (merchants settled in Leghorn), who sent 
him to Paris, and maintained him, for the express 
purpose of elucidating the ancient, and adding to 



1 I have in my possession an excellent lexicon 
" TptyAojcrcroi'," which I received in exchange from 
S. G — , Esq. for a small gem: my antiquarian 
friends have never forgotten it, or forgiven me. 

- In Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of 
" throwing the insolent Hellenist out of the win- 
dows." On this a French critic exclaims, "Ah, 
my God! throw an Hellenist out of the window! 
what sacrilege! " It certainly would be a serious 
business for those authors who dwell in the attics : 
but I have quoted the passage merely to prove the 
similarity of style among the controversialists of all 
polished countries; London or Edinburgh could 
hardly parallel this Parisian ebullition. 



the modern, researches of his countrymen. Coray, 
however, is not considered by his countrymen equal 
to some who lived in the two last centuries; more 
particularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic 
writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks, that 
Meletius terms him " Merd toi- ®ovKvhLi,r\v «:ot 
'B.f.vo^tavTa. apLffTo^ 'EAAjji'wi'." (P. 224. Ecclesi- 
astical History, vol. iv.) 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, 
and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus 
on the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and 
more particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed 
with in Joannina, are also in high repute among 
their literati. The last mentioned has published in 
Romaic and Latin a work on " True Happiness," 
dedicated to Catherine II. But Polyzois, who is 
stated by the Reviewer to be the only modern 
except Coray who has distinguished himself by a 
knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Polyzois Lam- 
panitziotes of Yanina, who has published a number 
of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less 
than an iti;ierant vender of books; with the con- 
tents of which he had no concern beyond his name 
on the title-page, placed there to secure his property 
in the publication; and he was, moreover, a man 
utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. As 
the name, however, is not uncommon, some other 
Polyzois may have edited the Epistles of Aristaenetus. 

It is to be regretted that the system of conti- 
nental blockade has closed the few channels through 
which the Greeks received their publications, par- 
ticularly Venice and Trieste. Even the common 
grammars for children are become too dear for the 
lower orders. Amongst their original works the 
Geography of Meletius, Archbishop of Athens, and 
a multitude of theological quartos and poetical 
pamphlets, are to be met with; their grammars and 
lexicons of two, three, and four languages are nu- 
merous and excellent. Their poetry is in rhyme. 
The most singular piece I have lately seen is a sat- 
ire in dialogue between a Russian, English, and 
French traveller, and the Waywode of Wallachia 
(or Blackbey, as they term him), an archbishop, a 
mercliant, and Cogia Bachi (or primate), in suc- 
cession; to all of whom under the Turks the writer 
attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs 
are sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes 
generally unpleasing to the ear of a Frank; the 
best is the famous " AeOre 7rat6e? tuji/ 'EAArjvwv," 
by the unfortunate Riga. But from a catalogue of 
more than sixty authors, now before me, only fifteen 
can be found who have touched on any theme ex- 
cept theology. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek of 
Athens named Marmarotouri to make arrange- 
ments, if possible, for printing in London a transla- 
tion of Barthelemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he 
has no other opportunity, unless he despatches the 
MS. to Vienna by the Black Sea and Danube. 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at 
Hecatonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of 
Sebastiani: he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, 
Haivali; a town on the continent, where that insti- 
tution for a hundred students and three professors 
still exists. It is true that this establishment was 
disturbed by the Porte, under the ridiculous pretext 
that the Greeks were constructing a fortress instead 
of a college: but on investigation, and the payment 
of some purses to the Divan, it has been permitted 
to continue. The principal professor, named Ueni- 
amin (i.e. Benjamin), is stated to be a man of tal- 



APPENDIX TO CANTO THE SECOND. 



299 



ent, but a freethinker. He was born in Lesbos, 
studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, Latin, 
and some Frank languages; besides a smattering of 
the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter further on 
this topic than may allude to the article in question, 
I cannot but observe that the Reviewer's lamenta- 
tion over the fall of the Greeks appears singular, 
when he closes it with these words: " The change 
IS to be attributed to their niisfortuiies rather 
than to any ^physical degradation.' " It may be 
true that tlie Greeks are not physically degenerated, 
and that Constantinople contained on the day when 
it changed masters as many men of six feet and up- 
wards as in the hour of prosperity ; but ancient his- 
tory and modern politics instruct us that something 
more than physical perfection is necessary to pre- 
serve a state in vigor and independence; and the 
Greeks, in particular, are a melancholy example of 
the near connection between moral degradation and 
national decay. 

The Reviewer mentions a plan " we believe " by 
Potemkin for the purification of the Romaic; and I 
have endeavored in vain to procure any tidings or 
traces of its existence. There was an academy in 
St. Petersburg for the Greeks; but it was sup- 
pressed by Paul, and has not been revived by his 
successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a 
slip of the pen, in p. 58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh 
Review, where these words occur: — " We are told 
that when the capital of the East yielded to Soiy- 
vtan" — it may be presumed that this last word 
will, in a future edition, be altered to Mahomet II. 1 
The " ladies of Constantinople," it seems, at that 
period spoke a dialect, " which would not have dis- 
graced the lips of an Athenian." I do not know 
how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies in 
general, and the Athenians in particular, are much 
altered; being far from choice either in their dialect 
or expressions, as the whole Attic race are barba- 
rous to a proverb : — 

"' Q, 'A^rjva, TrpcoTTj xu>pa, 
Ti yaiSapovg Tp€'</)eis Tiopa.^' 



^ In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 
1808, it is observed: " Lord Byron passed some of 
his early years in Scotland, where he might have 
learned that pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any 
more than dnet means 2l fiddle." Query, — Was 
it in Scotland that the young gentlemen of the 
Edinburgh Review learned that Solyman means 
Mahomet //. any more than criticism means 
infallibility? — but thus it is, 

" Casdimus inque vicem praebemus crura sagittis." 

The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the 
pen (from the great similarity of the two words, 
and the total absence of error from the former 
pages of the literary leviathan) that I should have 
passed it over as in the text, had I not perceived in 
the Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation 
on all such detections, particularly a recent one, 
where words and syllables are subjects of disquisi- 
tion and transposition; and the above-mentioned 
parallel passage in my own case irresistibly pro- 
pelled me to hint how much easier it is to be critical 
than correct. The gentlemen, having enjoyed 
many a triumph on such victories, will hardly 
begrudge me a slight ovation for the present. 



In Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161, is the following sentence: 
— " The vulgar dialect of the city was gross and 
barbarous, though the compositions of the church 
and palace sometimes affected to copy the purity of 
the Attic models." Whatever may be asserted on 
the subject, it is difficult to conceive that the 
" ladies of Constantinople," in the reign of the last 
Cajsar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna Comnena 
wrote three centuries before : and those royal pages 
are not esteemed the best models of composition, 
although the princess ykinTTon' >iix<iv 'AKPIBI12 
\\rTLKLC,ov(Tav. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the 
best Greek is spoken : in the latter there is a flour- 
ishing school under the direction of Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Ps:ilida's, who 
is making a tour of observation through Greece : 
he is intelligent, and better educated than a fellow- 
commoner of most colleges. I mention this as a 
proof that the spirit of inquiry is not dormant among 
the Greeks. 

The Reviewer mentions Mr. Wright, the author 
of the beautiful poem " Horae lonicse," as qualified 
to give details of these nominal Romans and degen- 
erate Greeks; and also of their language: but Mr. 
Wright, though a good poet and an able man, has 
made a mistake where he states the Albanian dia- 
lect of the Romaic to approximate nearest to the 
Hellenic: for the Albanians speak a Romaic as 
notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, 
or the Italian of Naples. Yanina, (where, next to 
the Fanal, the Greek is purest,) although the capi- 
tal of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania but 
Epirus; and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper 
up to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen (beyond which 
I did not advance) they speak worse Greek than 
even the Athenians. I was attended for a year and 
a half by two of these singular mountaineers, whose 
mother tongue is lUyric, and I never heard them 
or their countrymen (whom I have seen, not only 
at home, but to the amount of twenty thousand in 
the army of Veli Pacha) praised for their Greek, 
but often laughed at for their provincial barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, 
amongst which some from the Bey of Corinth, 
written to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and 
others by the dragoman of the Caimacam of the 
Morea (which last governs in Vely Pacha's ab- 
sence) are said to be favorable specimens of their 
j epistolary style. I also received some at Constan- 
tinople from private persons, written in a most 
hyperbolical style, but in the true antique character. 

The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on 
the tongue in its past and present state, to a para- 
dox (page 59) on the great mischief the knowledge 
of his own language has done to Coray, who, it 
seems, is less likely to understand the ancient 
Greek, because he is perfect master of the modern! 
This observation follows a paragraph, recommend- 
ing, in explicit terms, the study of the Romaic, as 
"a powerful auxiliary," not only to the traveller 
and foreign merchant, but also to the classical 
scholar; in short, to everybody except the only 
person who can be thoroughly acquainted with its 
uses; and by a parity of reasoning, our old lan- 
guage is conjectured to be probably more attainable 
by " foreigners " than by ourselves! Now, I am 
inclined to think, that a Dutch Tyro in our tongue 
(albeit himself of Saxon blood) would be sadly per- 
plexed with " Sir Tristrem," or any other given 
" Auchinleck MS." with or without a grammar or 
glossary; and to most apprehensions it seems evi- 



300 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PlLGklMAGE. 



dent, that none but a native can acquire a compe- 
tent, far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete 
idioms. We may give the critic credit for his 
ingenuity, but no more believe him than we do 
Smollett's Lismahago, who maintains that the purest 
English is spoken in Edinburgh. That Coray may 
err is very possible; but if he does, the faidt is in 
the man rather than in his mother tongue, which is, 
as it ought to be, of the greatest aid to the native 
student. — Here the Reviewer proceeds to business 
on Strabo's translators, and here I close my remarks. 

Sir VV. Drammond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aber- 
deen, Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. 
Walpole, and many others now in England, have 
all the requisites to furnish details of this fallen 
people. The fewr observations I have offered I 
should have left where I made them, had not the 
article in question, and above all the spot where I 
read it, induced me to advert to those pages, which 
the advantage of my present situation enabled me 
to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 

I have endeavored to waive the personal feelings 
which rise in despite of me in touching upon any 
part of the Edinburgh Review ; not from a wish to 
conciliate the favor of its writers, or to cancel the 
remembrance of a syllable I have formerly pub- 
lished, but simply from a sense of the impropriety 
of mixing up private resentments with a disquisi- 
tion of the present kind, and more particularly at 
this distance of time and place. 

Amongst an enslaved people, obliged to have re- 
course to foreign presses even for their books of 
religion, it is less to be wondered at that we find so 
few publications on general subjects than that we 
find any at all. The whole number of the Greeks, 
scattered up and down the Turkish empire and 
elsewhere, may amount, at most, to three millions; 
and yet, for so scanty a number, it is impossible-to 
discover any nation with so great a proportion of 
books and their authors as the Greeks of the pres- 
ent century. " Ay, but," say the generous advo- 
cates of oppression, who, while they assert the 
ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent them from 
dispelling it, "ay, but these are mostly, if not all, 
ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good for 
nothing." Well, and pray what else can they 
write about? It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, 
particularly an Englishman, who may abuse the 
government of his own country; or a Frenchman, 
who may abuse every government except his own, 
and who may range at will over every philosophi- 
cal, religious, scientific, or moral subject, sneering 
at the Greek legends. A Greek must not write on 
politics, and cannot touch on science for want of 
" instruction ; if he doubts he is excommunicated and 
damned; therefore his countrj'-men are not poisoned 
with modern philosophy; and as to morals, thanks 
to the Turks! there are no such things. What 
then is left him, if he has a turn for scribbling? 
Religion and holy biography; and it is natural 
enough that those who have so little in this life 
should look to the next. It is no great wonder, 
then, that in a catalogue now before me of fifty-five 
Greek writers, many of whom were lately living, 
not above fifteen should have touched on any thing 
but religion. The catalogue alluded to is contained 
in the twenty-sixth chapter of the fourth volume of 
Meletius's Ecclesiastical History. 



Additional Note, on the Turks. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have 
been much exaggerated, or rather have consider- 
ably diminished of late years. The Mussulmans 
have been beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very 
comfortable to voyagers. 

It is hazardous to say much on the subject of 
Turks and Turkey; since it is possible to live 
amongst them twenty years without acquiring in- 
formation, at lea^t from themselves. As far as my 
own slight experience carried me, I have no com- 
plaint to make; but am indebted for many civili- 
ties (I might almost say for friendship), and much 
hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son Veli Pacha, of the 
Morea, and several others of high rank in the 
provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor of 
Athens, and now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, 
and as social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a 
tray or a table. During the carnival, when our 
English party were masquerading, both himself 
and his successor were more happy to " receive 
masks " than any dowager in Grosvenor-square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent, 
his friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was car- 
ried from table perfectly qualified for any club in 
Christendom; while the worthy Waywode himself 
triumphed in his. fall. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, I 
ever found the strictest honor, the highest disinter- 
estedness. In transacting business with them, 
there are none of those dirty peculations, under the 
name of interest, difference of exchange, commis- 
sion, etc. etc. uniformly found in applying to a 
Greek consul to cash bills, even on the first 
houses in Pera. 

With regard to presents, an established custom in 
the East, you will rarely find yourself a loser; as 
one worth acceptance is generally returned by 
another of similar value — a horse, or a shawl. 

In the capital and at court the citizens and court- 
iers are formed in the same school with those of 
Christianity; but there does not exist a more hon- 
orable, friendly, and high-spirited character than 
the true Turkish provincial Aga, or Moslem coun- 
try gentleman. It is not meant here to designate 
the governors of towns, but those Agas who, by a 
kind of feudal tenure, possess lands and houses, of 
more or less extent, in Greece and Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as 
the rabble in countries with greater pretensions to 
civilization. A Moslem, in walking the streets of 
our coimtry towns, would be more incommoded in 
England than a Frank in a similar situation in Tur- 
key. Regimentals are the best travelling dress. 

The best accounts of the religion and different 
sects of Islamism, may be found in D'Ohsson's 
French; of their manners, etc. perhaps in Thorn- 
ton's English. The Ottomans, with all their de- 
fects, are not a people to be despised. Equal, at 
least, to the Spaniards, they are superior to the 
Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce what 
they are, we can at least say what they are not : 
they are not treacherous, they are not cowardly, 
they do not burn heretics, tliey are not assassins, 
nor has an enemy advanced to their capital. They 
are faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit to 
govern, and devout to their God without an inqui- 
sition. Were they driven from St. Sophia to-mor- 
row, and the French or Russians enthroned in their 
stead, it would become a question whether Europe 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



301 



would gaia by the exchange. England would cer- 
tainly be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are 
so generaliy, and sometimes justly accused, it may 
be doubted, always excepting France and England, 
in what useful points of knowledge they are excelled 
by other nations. Is it in the common arts of life? 
In their manufactures? Is a Turkish sabre inferior 
to a Tole lo? or is a Turk worse clothed or lodged or 
fed and taught than a Spaniard? Are their Pachas 
worse educated than a Grandee?' or an Effendi than 
I Knight of St. Jago? I think not. 

I remember .\Iahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were 
in the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now, 
this question from a boy of ten years old proved 
that his education had not been neglected. It may 
he doubted if an English boy at that age knows the 
difference of the Divan from a College of Dervises; 
hut 1 am very sure a Spaniard does not. How little 
jMahtnout, surrounded, as he had been, entirely by 
his Turkish tutors, had learned that tliere was such 
a thing as a Parliament, it were useless to conjec- 
ture, unless we suppose that his instructors did not 
confine his studies to the Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, 
which are very regularly attended, and the poor 



are taught without the church of Turkey being put 
into peril. I believe the system is not yet printed 
(though there is such a thing as a Turkish press, 
and books printed on the late military institution of 
the Nizam Gedidd) ; nor have I heard whethcB the 
Mufti and the Mollas have subscribed, or the Cai- 
macani and the Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear 
the ingenuous youth of the turban should be taught 
not to " pray to God their way." The Greeks also 
— a kind of Eastern Irish papists — have a college 
of their own at Maynooth — no, at Haivali; where 
the heterodox receive much the same kind of coun- 
tenance from the Ottoman as the Catholic college 
from the English legislature. Who shall then affirm, 
that the Turks are ignorant bigots, when they thus 
evince the exact proportion of Christian charity 
which is tolerated in the most prosperous and or- 
thodox of all possible kingdoms? But though they 
allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to par. 
ticipate in their privileges: no, let them fight their 
battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), be drubbed 
in this world, and damned in the next. And shall 
we then emancipate our Irish Helots? M.ihomet 
forbid ! We should then be bad Mussulmans, and 
worse Christians: at present we unite the best of 
both — Jesuitical faith, and something not much in- 
ferior to Turkish toleration. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



"Afin que cette application vous forqat de penser a autre chose; il n'y a en v^rite de remade que celui- 
la et le temps." — Lettre dii Rot de Prusse a D'Aletnbert, September 7, 1776. 

That knows his rider. Welcome, to thSr 

roar! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the strained mast should quiver as 

a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's 

breath prevail. 

III. 



I. 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
Ada ! 1 sole daughter of my house and 

heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they 

smiled, 
Arid then we parted, — not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 

The waters heave around me ; and on high 

The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 

Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 

When Albion's lessening shores could grieve 

or glad mine eye.'- 



Once more upon the waters ! yet once more 1 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 



1 [In a letter, dated Verona, November 6, 1816, 
Ryron says — " By the way, Ada's name (which I 
found in our pedigree, under king John's reign), is 
the same with that of the sister of Charlemagne, as 
I redde, the other day, in a book treatina of the 
Rhine."] 

2 [Byron quitted England, for the second and 
last time, on the 25th of April, 1816, attended by 
William Fletcher and Robert Rushton, the "yeo- 
man" and " page" of Canto I.; his physician, Dr. 
Polidori; and a Swiss valet.] 



In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme, then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up 

tears, 
W^hich, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower 

appears. 

IV. 
Since my young days of passion — joy, or 

pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a 

string, 



302 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cHng — 
Sp that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fhng 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful 

theme. 

V. 
He, who grown aged in this world of woe. 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of 

life. 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife. 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet 

rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's 

haunted cell. 

VI. 
'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse 

earth. 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mixed v/ith thy spirit, blended with thy birth. 
And feeling still with thee in my crushed f^l- 

ings dearth. 
• ■ VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly : — I have 

thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to 

tame. 
My springs of life were poisoned. 'Tis too 

late ! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the 

same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 

VIII. 
Something too much of this : — but now 'tis 

past. 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent Harold reappears at last; 
He of the breast which fain no more would 

feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but 

ne'er heal ; 
Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him 
In soul and aspect as in age : t years steal 



[The first and second cantos of" Childe Harold'j 



Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the 

brim. 

IX. 
His had been quaffed too quickly, and he 

found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he filled 

again. 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deemed its spring perpetual ; but in 

vain ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which galled for ever, fettering though un- 
seen, 
And heavy though it clanked not ; worn with 

pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew 

keen, 
Entering with every step he took througfh many 

a scene. 

X. 
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed 
And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind ; 

Pilgrimage " produced, on their appearance in i8i^, 
an effect upon the public, at least equal to any work 
which ha= appeared within this or the last century, 
and placed at once upon Lord Byron's head the 
garland for which other men of gcni is have toiled 
long, and which they have gained late. He was 
placed preeminent among the literary men of his 
country by general acclamation. It wa^ amidst 
such feelings of admiration that he entered the pub- 
lic stage. Every thing in his manner, person, and 
conversation, tended to maintain the charm which 
his genius had flung around him; and those ad- 
mitted to his conversation, far from finding that the 
inspired poet sunk into orJinary mortality, felt 
themselves attached to him, not only by many 
noble qualities, but by the interest of a mysterious, 
undefined, and almost painful curiosity. A counte- 
nance exquisitely modelled to the expression of 
feeling and passion, and exhibiting the remarkable 
contrast of very dark hair and eyebrows, with light 
and expressive eyes, presented to the physiogno- 
mist the most interesting subject for the exercise of 
his art. The predominating expression was that of 
deep and habitual thought, which gave way to the 
most rapid play of features when he engaged in in- 
teresting discussion : so that a brother poet com- 
pared them to the sculpture of a beautiful alabaster 
vase, only seen to perfection when lighted up from 
within. The flashes of mirth, gaiety, indignation, 
or satirical dislike, which frequently animated Lord 
Byron's coimtenance, might, during an evening's 
conversation, be mistaken, by a stranger, for the 
habitual expression, so easily and so happily was it 
formed for them all ; but those who had an opportu- 
nity of studying his features for a length of time, 
and upon various occasions, both of rest and emo- 
tion, will agree that their proper language was that 
of melancholy. Sometimes shades of this gloom 
interrupted even his gayest and most happy mo- 
ments, — Sir Walter Scott.)^ 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



303 



And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to 

tind 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Na- 
ture's hand. 

XI. 

But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek 
To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's 

cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds 

unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor 

climb ? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, rolled 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond 

prime. 

XII. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he 

held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was 

quelled 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncom- 

pelled. 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebelled ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could 

find 
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 

XIII. 

Where rose the mountains, there to him 

were friend's ; 
Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his 

home ; 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, ex- 
tends. 
He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft 
forsake 
For Nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on 
the lake. 

XIV. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the 

stars. 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beains ; and earth, and earth- 
born jars, 
And human frailties were forgotten quite : 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal^ envying it the light 



To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos 
us to its brink. 

XV. 
But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Drooped as a wild-born falcon with dipt 

wing. 
To whom the boundless air alone were 

home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom 
eat. 

XVI. 

Self-exiled Harold i wanders forth again. 
With nought of hope left, but with less of 

gloom ; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume. 
Which, though 'twere wild, — as on the 

plundered wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their 

doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking 

deck, — 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to 

check."'^ 

1 [" In the third canto of Childe H.irold," says 
Sir Egerton Brydges, " there is much inequality. 
The thoughts and images are sometimes labored; 
but still they are a very great improvement upon 
the first two cantos. Lord Byron here speaks in 
his own language and character, not in the tone of 
others; — he is describing, not inventiui,': therefore 
he hasnot, and cannot have, the freedom w^thwhich 
fiction is composed. Sometimes he has a concise- 
ness which is very powerful, but almost abrupt. 
From trusting himself alone, and working out his 
own deep-buried thoughts, he now, perhaps, fell 
into a habit of laboring, even where there was no 
occasion to labor. In the first sixteen stanzas there 
is yet a mighty but groaning burst of dark and ap- 
palling strength. It was unquestionably the unex- 
aggerated picture of a most tempestuous and som- 
bre, but magnificent soul! "] 

- [These stanzas, — in which the author, adopting 
more distinctly the character of Childe Harold than 
in the original poem, assigns the cause why he has 
resumed his Pilgrim's staff" when it was hoped he 
had sat down for life a denizen of his native country, 
— abound with much moral interest and poetical 
beauty. The commentary through which the 
meaning of this melancholy tale is rendered obvi- 
ous, is still in vivid remembrance; for the errors of 
those who excel their fellows in gifts and accom- 
plishments are not soon forgotten. Those scenes, 
ever most painful to the bosom, were rendered yet 
more so by public discussion ; and it is at least pos- 
sible that amongst those who exclaimed most loudly 
on this unhappy occasion, were some in whose eyes 
literary superiority exaggerated Lord Byron's of- 



304 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGKLMAGE. 



XVII. 
Stop! — for thy tread is on an Empire's 

dust! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! 
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? 
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest 

grow ! 
And is this all the world has gained by thee. 
Thou fn-st and last of fields ! king-making 

Victory ? 

XVIII. 
And Harold stands upon this place of 

skulls. 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ; 
How in an hour the power which gave 

annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In "pride of place"! here last the eagle 

flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain ,2 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations 

through ; 
Ambition's life and labors all were vain ; 
He wears the shattered links of the world's 

broken chain. 

XIX, 
Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more 

free ? 
Did nations combat to make One submit ; 

fence. The scene may be described in a few words: 
— the wise condemned — the good regretted — the 
multitude, idly or maliciously inquisitive, rushed 
from pLice to place, gathering gossip, which they 
mangled and exaggerated while they repeated it; 
and impudence, ever ready to hitch itself into noto- 
riety, hooked 071, as Falstaff enjoins Bardolph, 
blustered, bullied, and talked of " pleading a cause," 
and " taking a side." — Sir Walter Scott.^^ 

1 "Pride of place" is a term of falconry, and 
means the highest pilch of flight. See Macbeth, etc. 
" A falcon towering in his pride of place," etc. 

' [In the original draught of this stanza (which, as 
well as the preceding one, was written after a visit 
to the field of Waterloo), the lines stood — 

" Here his last flight the haughty eagle flew. 
Then tore with bloody beak the fatal plain." 
On seeing these lines, Mr. Reinagle sketched an 
eagle, grasping the earth with his talons. The cir- 
cumstance being mentioned to Byron, he wrote thus 
to a friend at Brussels, — "Reinagle is a better 
poet and a better ornithologist than I am : eagles, 
and all birds of prey, attack with their talons, and 
not with their beaks; and I have altered the line 
thus: — 

'Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain.' 
This is, I think, a better line, besides its poetical 
justice."] 



Or league to teach all kings true sover- 
eignty ? 

What! shall reviving Thraldom again be 

The patched-up idol of enlightened days ? 

Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall 
we 

Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly 
gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove 
before ye praise ! 

XX. 

If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot 

tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, feai-s, 
Have all been borne, and broken by the ac- 
cord 
Of roused-up inillions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sv/ord 
Such as Harmodius3 drew on Athens' tyrant 
lord. 

XXI. 
There was a sound of revelry by night,^ 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and bravi 

men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and wher 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spakj 

again. 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 5 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a 
rising knell ! 



s See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristo 
giton. The best English translation is in Bland' 
Anthology, by Mr. (since Lord Chief Justice 
Denman, — 

" With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," etc. 

* There can be no more remarkable proof of the 
greatness of Lord Byron's genius, than the spirit 
and interest he has contrived to communicate to his 
picture of the often-drawn and difficult scene of the 
breaking up from Brussels before the great Battle. 
It is a trite remark, that poeis generally fail in the 
representation of great events, where the interest is 
recent, and the particulars are consequently cl aly 
and commonly known. It required some courage 
to venture on a theme beset with so many dangers, 
and deformed with the wrecks of so many formei 
adventurers. See, however, with what easy strength 
he enters upon it, and with how much grace he 
gradually finds his way back to his own peculiar 
vein of sentiment and diction ! — Icff^ey- ] 

5 On the night previous to the action, it is said 
that a ball was given at Brussels.— [It is commonly, 
but erroneously asserted that Wellington was sur- 
prised by the French army while at a ball. The 
Duke had received intelligence of Napoleon's de- 
cisive operations, and it was intended to out off th^ 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



305 



XXII. 

Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the 
wind, 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 

On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleas- 
ure meet 

To chase the glowing Hours with flying 
feet — 

But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in 
once more 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's open- 
ing roar ! 

XXIII. 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did 
hear 

That sound the first amidst the festival, 

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic 
ear. 

And when they smiled because he deemed 
it near, 

His heart more truly knew that peal too well 

Which stretched his father on a bloody 
bier,i 

And roused the vengeance blood alene 
could quell : 
Hs rushed into the field, and, foremost fight- 
ing, fell.^ 

XXIV. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of dis- 
tress. 

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 

Blushed at the praise of their own loveli- 
ness ; 

And there were sudden partings, such as 
press 

The life from out young hearts, and choking 
sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could 
guess 

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn 
could rise ! 



ball; but, on reflection, thinking it important that 
the people of Brussels should be kept in ignorance, 
the Duke not only desired that the ball should pro- 
ceed, but the general officers received his commands 
to appear at it — each taking care to leave as quietly 
as possible at ten o'clock, and join his respective 
division.] 

1 [The Duke of Brunswick fell at Quatre Bras. 
His fither received his death-wound at Jena.] 

''^ [This stanza is very grand, even from its total 
unadornment. It is only a versification of the com- 
mon narratives; but here may well be applied a 
position of Johnson, that "where truth is sufficient 
to fill the mind, fiction is worse than useless." — Sir 
E. Brydges.'\ 



XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the 

steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering 

car. 
Went pouring forward with impetuous 

speed. 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror 

dumb. 
Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! 

They come 1 they come 1 " 

XXVI. 

And wild ana high the " Cameron's gather- 
ing " rose ! 

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 

Have heard, and heard, too, have her 
Saxon foes : — 

How in the noon of night that pibroch 
thrills. 

Savage and shrill! But with the breath 
which fills 

Their mountain-pipe, so fill the moun- 
taineers 

With the fierce native daring which instils 

The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
And Evan's, Donald's 3 fame rings in each 
clansman's ears ! 

XXVII. 

And Ardennes* waves above them her 

green leaves. 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass. 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shalC 

grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder 

cold and low. 

XXVIII. 
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 



3 Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, 
the " gentle Lochiel " of the '• forty-five." 

* The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a rem- 
nant of the forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's 
Orlando, and immortal in Shakspeare's " As you 
like it." It is also celebrated in Tacitus as being 
the spot of successful defence by the Germans 
against the Roman encroachments. I have ven- 
tured to adopt the name connected with nobler 
associations than those of mere slaughter. — \Shak- 
speare''s Forest of Arden was in Warwickshire , 
Ejiglaiid.^ 



306 



CmiDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



The midnight brought the signal-sound of 

strife, 
The. morn the marshalling in arms, — the 

day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which 

when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped 

and pent. 
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red 

burial blent ! i 

XXIX. 

Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than 

mine; 
Yet one I would select from that proud 

throng. 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong,^ 
And partly that bright names will hallow 

song; 
And his was of the bravest, and when show- 
ered 
The death-bohs deadliest the thinned files 

along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest 

lowered, 
They reach no nobler breast than thine, young 

gallant Howard ! 

XXX. 

There have been tears and breaking hearts 
for thee. 

And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 

But when I stood beneath the fresh green 
tree. 

Which living waves where thou didst cease 
to live, 

And saw around me the wide field revive 

With fruits and fertile promise, and the 
Spring 

Come forth her work of gladness to con- 
trive. 

With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turned from all she brought to those she 
could not bring.3 

^ [Childe Harold, though he shuns to celebrate 
the victory of Waterloo, gives us here a most beau- 
tiful d'.-scription of the evening which preceded the 
battle of Quatre Bras, the alarm which called out 
the troops, and the hurry and confusion which pre- 
ceded their march. I am not sure that any verses 
in our language surpass, in vigor and in feeling, 
this most beautiful description. — Sir ll^'alter 
Scoit] 

_ 2 [See note to English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers, ante, p. 139.] 

3 My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field 
seemed intelligent and accurate. The place where 
Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and 
solitary trees (there was a third cut down, or shiv- 
ered in the battle) , which stand a few yards from 



XXXI. 

I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, mus^ 

awake 
Those whom they thirst for; though the 

sound of Fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honored but assumes a stronger, bitterei 

claim. 



They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smil- 
ing, mourn : 

The tree will wither long before it fall ; 

The hull drives on, though mast and sail 
be torn ; 

The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 

In massy hoariness ; the ruined wall 

Stands when its wind-worn battlements are 
gone ; 

The bars survive the captive they enthrall ; 

The day drags through though storms keep 
out the sun ; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly 
live on: 



Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was, 
The same, and still the more, the more it 

breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do which not for- 
sakes, 
Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold, 



each other at a pathway's side. Beneath these he 
died and was buried. The body has since been re- 
moved to England. A small hollow for the pres- 
ent marks where it lay, but will probably soon be 
effaced; the plough has been upon it, and the grain 
is. — After pointing out the different spots where 
Picton and other gallant men had perished, the 
guide said, " Here Major Howard lay: I was near 
him when wounded." I told him my relationship, 
and he seemed then still more anxious to point out 
the particular spot and circumstances. The place 
is one of the most marked in the field, from the pe- 
culiarity of the two trees above mentioned. I went 
on horseback twice over the field, comparing it with 
my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, Wa- 
terloo seems marked out for the scene of some great 
action, though this may be mere imagination: I 
have viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, 
Mantinea, Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon; and 
the field around Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont 
appears to want little but a better cause, and that 
undefinable but impressive halo which the lapse of 
ages throws around a celebrated spot, to vie in in- 
terest with any or all of these, except, perhaps, the 
last mentioned. 



CmiDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



307 



And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow 

aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is cold, 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are 
untold.l 

XXXIV. 

There is a very Hfe in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it 

were 
As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit ' 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples 2 on the Dead Sea's shore. 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would 

he name threescore ? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist numbered out the years of 
man : 

They are enough ; and if thy tale be true. 

Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleet- 
ing span, 

More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 

Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 

Their children's lips shall echo them, and 
say — 

" Here, where the sword united nations 
drew, 

Our countrymen were warring on that day ! " 
And this is much, and all which will not pass 
away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of 

men. 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fixt. 
Extreme in all things 1 hadst thou been be- 
twixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never 

been ; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou 

seek'st 
Even now to re-assume the imperial mien. 
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of 
the scene 1 



1 [" There is a richness and energy in this pas- 
sage, which is peculiar to Lord Byron, among 
all modern poets, — a throng of glowing images, 
poured forth at once, with a facility and profusion 
which must appear mere wastefulness to more eco- 
nomical writers, and a certain negligence and harsh- 
ness of diction which can belong only to an author 
who is oppressed with the exuberance and rapidity 
of his conceptions." — l^ff^ey.^ 

2 The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake 
Asphaltites were said to be fair without, and, within, 
ashes. Vide Tacitus, Histor. lib. v. 7. 



XXXVII. 
Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds 

than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and be- 
came 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 
Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou 
didst assert. 

XXXVIII. 
Oh, more or less than man — in high or low. 
Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, 

now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to 

yield : 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, 
rebuild, 
. But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
However deeply in men's spirits skilled, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust 
of war, 
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the 
loftiest star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning 

tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy. 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep 

pride. 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard 

by, 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou 

hast smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
When Fortune fled her spoiled and favorite 

child. 
He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him 

piled.. 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them 
Ambition steeled thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn, which could con- 
temn 
Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, 

not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turned unto thine overthrow; 
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who 
choose. 

XLI. 
If, like a tower upon a headlong rock. 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 



308 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Such scorn of man had helped to brave the 

shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which 

paved thy throne, 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a 

den.i 

XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore. 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core. 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made 

men mad 
By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet 

things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret 

springs. 
And are themselves the fools to those they 

fool; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a 

school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to 

shine or rule : 



^ The great error of Napoleon, " if we have writ 
our annals true," was a continued obtrusion on 
mankind of his want of ail community of feeling 
for or with them; perhaps more offensive to human 
vanity than the active cruelty of more trembling 
and suspicious tyranny. Such were his speeches to 
public assemblies as well as individuals; and the 
single expression which he is said to have used on 
returning to Paris after the Russian winter had de- 
stroyed his army, rubbing his hands over a fire, 
" This is pleasanter than Moscow," would prob- 
ably alienate more favor from his cause than the 
destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 
[Far from being deficient in that necessary branch 
of the politician's art which soothes the passions 
arid conciliates the prejudices of those whom they 
wish to employ as instruments, Bonaparte pos- 
sessed it in exquisite perfection. He seldom missed 
finding the very man that was fittest for his imme- 
diate purpose; and he had, in a peculiar degree, 
the art of moulding him to it. It was not, then, 
because he despised the means necessary to gain 
his end, that he finally fell short of attaining it, but 
because, confiding in his stars, his fortune, and his 
strength, the ends which he proposed were unat- 
tainable even by the gigantic means which he pos- 
sessed. — Sir Walter Scott.'l 



XLIV. 
Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall 

find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and 

snow; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind. 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow. 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head. 
And thus reward the toils which to those 

summits led.2 

XLVI. 

Away with these ! true Wisdom's world 

will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine. 
Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and 

dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, moun- 
tain, vine. 
And chiefless castles breathing stern fare- 
wells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin green- 
ly dwells. 

XLVII. 
And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind. 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd. 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind. 



- [This is certainly splendidly written, but we 
trust it IS not true. From Macedonia's madman to 
the Swede — from Nimrod to Bonaparte, — the 
hunters of men have pursued their sport with as 
much gaiety, and as little remorse, as the himters 
of other animals; and have lived as cheerily in their 
days of action, and as cnmfortably in their repose, 
as the followers of better pursuits. It would be 
strange, therefore, if the other active, but more 
innocent spirits, whom Lord Byron has here placed 
in the same predicament, and who share all their 
sources of enjoyment, without the guilt and the 
hardness which they cannot fail of contracting, 
should be more miserable or more unfriended than 
those splendid curses of their kind; and it would 
be passing strange, and pitiful, if the most precious 
gifts of Providence should produce only unhappi- 
ness, and mankind regard with hostility their great- 
est benefactors. — Jeffrey. ^ 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



309 



Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and 

proud, 
Banners on high, and battles passed below ; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust 

ere now. 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no 

future blew. 

XLVIII. 

Beneath these battlements, within those 

walls. 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in 

proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws i conquerors 

should have 
But History's purchased page to call them 

great ? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls 

were full as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields. 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their 

shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous 

pride. 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would 

glide ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew 

on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief 

won, 
Saw the discolored Rhine beneath its ruin run. 



But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
Making their waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure 

for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so. 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to 

see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem 

such to me. 
Even now what wants thy stream? — that it 

should Lethe be. 



^ " What wants that knave that a king should 
have?" was King James's question on meeting 
Johnny Armstrong and his followers in full accou- 
trements. — See the Ballad. 



LI. 

A thousand battles have assailed thy 
banks. 

But these and half their fame have passed 
away. 

And Slaughter heaped on high his welter- 
ing ranks ; 

Their very graves are gone, and what are 
they? 

Thy tide washed down the blood of yester- 
day. 

And all was stainless, and on thy clear 
stream 

Glassed with its dancing light the sunny 
ray; 

But o'er the blackened memory's blighting 
dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as 
they seem. 

LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and passed along, 
Yet not insensible to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile 

dear: 
Though on his brow were graven lines aus- 
tere. 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en 

the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face. 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with 
transient trace. 

LIII. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his 
days 

Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 

It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 

On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 

Leap kindly back to kindness, though dis- 
gust 

Hath weaned it from all worldlings : thus 
he felt. 

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet 
trust 

In one fond breast, to which his own would 
melt. 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom 
dwelt. 

LIV. 

And he had learned to love, — I know not 

why. 
For this in such as him seems strange of 

mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 



310 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Small power the nipped affections have to 
grow, 
In him this glowed when all beside 
ceased to glow. 



had 



LV. 



And there was one soft breast, as hath been 

said, 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though 

unwed. 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absent 

greetings pour ! 

I. 

The castled crag of Drachenfels 1 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine. 
And hills all rich with blossomed trees. 
And fields which promise corn and wine. 
And scattered cities crowning these. 
Whose far white walls along them shine. 
Have strewed a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me. 



And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes. 
And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; . 
Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 
And many a rock which steeply lowers. 
And noble arch in proud decay. 
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 



I send the lilies given to me ; 

Though long before thy hand they touch, 

I know that they must withered be, 

But yet reject them not as such ; 

P'or I have cherished them as dear. 

Because they yet may meet thine eye, 



1 The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest 
summit of " the Seven Mountains," over the Rhine 
banks: it is in ruins, and connected with some sin- 
gular traditions: it is the first in view on the road 
from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river; 
on this bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of 
another, called the Jew's Castle, and a large cross 
commemorative of the murder of a chief by his 
brother. The number of castles and cities along 
the course of the Rhine on both sides is very great, 
and their situations remarkably beautiful. [These 
verses addressed to his sister, were written on the 
banks of the. Rhine in May.] 



And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, 
And offered from my heart to thine 1 



The river nobly foams and flows. 

The charm of this enchanted ground. 

And all its thousand turns disc.i se 

Some fresher beauty varying round : 

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 

Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear. 

Could thy dear eyes in following mine 

Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 

LVI. 
By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground. 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
bur enemy's — but let not that forbid 
Honor to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gushed from the rough 

soldier's lid. 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom. 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to 

resume. 

LVII. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young 

career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends 

and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger fingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of 

those. 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er 

him wept.2 



2 The monument of the young and lamented Gen- 
eral Marceau (killed by a rille-ball at Alterkirchen, 
on the last day of the fourth year of the French 
republic) still remains as described. The inscrip- 
tions on his monument are rather too long, and not 
required: his name was enough; France adored, 
and her enemies admired; both wept over him. 
His funeral was attended by the generals and de- 
tachments from both armies. In the same grave 
General Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in 
every sense of the word; but though he distin- 
guished himself greatly in battle, he had not the 
good fortune to die there: his death was attended 
by suspicions of poison. A separate monument 
(not over his body, which is buried by Marceau's) 
is raised for him near Andernach, opposite to which 
one of his most memorable exploits was performed, 
in throwing a bridge to an island on the Rhine. 
The shape and style are different from that of Mar- 
ceau's, and the inscription more simple and pleag- 




The Castle of Drachenfels. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



311 



Lviir. 
Here Ehrenbreitstein.i with her shattered 

wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and 

ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
A tower of victory! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watched along the plain : 
But Peace destroyed what War could never 

blight, 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Sum- 
mer's rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had 
poured in vain. 

LIX. 
Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long de- 
lighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to 

prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay. 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX. 
Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu 1 
There can be no farewell to scene hke thine ; 
The mind is colored by thy every hue ; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovelv 
Rhine ! "^ 



ing: — " The Army of the Sambre and Meuse to its 
Commander-in-Chief Hoche." This is all, and as 
it should be. Hoche was esteemed among the first 
of France's earlier generals, before Bonaparte 
monopolized her triumphs. He was the destined 
commander of the invading army of Ireland. 

' Ehrenbreitstein, i.e. " the broad stone of honor," 
one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dis- 
mantled and blown up by the French at the truce 
of Leoben. It had been, and could only be, reduced 
by famine or treachery. It yielded to the former, 
aided by surprise. .'Vfter having seen the fortifica- 
tions of Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike 
by comparison; but the situation is commanding. 
General Marceau besieged it in vain for some time, 
and I slept in a room where I was shown a window 
at which he is said to have been standing observing 
the progress of the siege by moonlight, when a ball 
struck immediately below it. 

^ [On taking Hockheim, the Austrians, in one 
part of the engagement, got to the brow of the hill, 
whence they had their first view of the Rhine. 
They instantly halted — not a gun was fired — not 
a voice heard: but they stood gazing on the river 
with those feelings which the events of the last fif- 
teen years at once called up. Prince Schwartzen- 
berg rode up to know the cause of this sudden stop; 
then they gave three cheers, rushed after the enemy, 
and drove thern into the water.] i 



'Tis with the thankful glance of parting 

praise ; 
More mighty spots may rise — more glar- 
ing shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of 
old days, 

LXI. 
The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom. 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls be- 
tween. 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets 

been 
In mockery of man's art; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene. 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Em- 
pires near them fall. 

LXII. 
But these recede. Above me are the Alps. 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy 

scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that e.xpands the spirit, yet appalls. 
Gather around these summits, as to show 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave 

vain man below. 

LXIII. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to 

scan. 
There is a spot should not be passed in 

vain, — 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field 1 where 

man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain. 
Nor blush for those who conquered on 

that plain; 
Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless 

host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument ; — the Stygian 

coast 
Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked 

each wandering ghost.3 



s The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of 
bones diminished to a small number by the Burgun- 
dian legion in the service of France; who anxiously 
effaced this record of their ancestors' less successful 
invasions. A few still remain, notwithstanding the 
pains taken by the Burgundians for ages (all who 
passed that way removing a bone to their own 
country), and the less justifiable larcenies of the 
Swiss postilions, who carried them off to sell for 
knife-handles; a purpose for which the whiteness 
imbibed by the bleaching of years had rendered 



312 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXIV. 

While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall 

stand ; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
All unbought champions in no princely 

cause 
Of vice-entailed Corruption; they no land 
Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings' rights divine, by some Dra- 
conic clause. 

LXV. 
By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years. 
And looks as with the wild-bewildered gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze. 
Yet still with consciousness; and there it 

stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays. 
When the coeval pride of human hands. 
Levelled Aventicum,! hath strewed her sub- 
ject lands. 

LXVI. 
And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the 

name I — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a 

claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's 

grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would 

crave 

The life she lived in ; but the judge was just. 

And then she died on him she could not save. 

Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 

And held within their urn one mind, one 

heart, one dust.^ 



them in great request. Of these relics I ventured 
to bring away as much as may have made a quarter 
of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if I had 
not, the next passer by might have perverted them 
to worse uses than the careful preservation which I 
intend for them. 

1 Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital 
of Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 

- Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, 
died soon after a vain endeavor to save her father, 
condemned to death as a traitor by Aulus Csecina. 
Her epitaph was discovered many years ago; — it 
is thus: — "Julia Alpinula: Hie jaceo. Infelicis 
patris infelix proles. Dese Aventiae Sacerdos. Ex- 
orare patris necem non potui: Male mori in fatis 
illi erat. Vixi annos xxin." — I know of no human 
composition so affecting as this, nor a history of 
deeper Interest. These are the names and actions 
which ought not to perish, and to which we turn 
with a true and healthy tenderness, from the 
wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of 
conquests and battles, with which the mind is 
roused for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, 



LXVII, 
But these are deeds which should not pass 

away. 
And names that must not wither, though 

the earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death 

and birth ; 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's flice, like yonder Alpine snow,^ 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 

LXVIII. 
Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face. 
The mirror where the stars and mountains 

view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and 

hue : 
There is too much of man here, to look 

through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than 

of old. 
Ere mingling with the herd had penned me 

in their fold. 

LXIX. 
To fiy from, need not be to hate, mankind : 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil. 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the 

spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
Midst a contentious world, striving where 

none are strong. 

LXX. 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our 

years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears. 
And color things to come with hues of 

Night; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 



from whence it recurs at length with all the nausea 
consequent on such intoxication. [This inscription 
is a forgery. See Quar. Rev. vol. 68, p. 6r, 62.] 

■> This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 
3d, 18 16), which even at this distance dazzles mine. 
— (July 20th.) I this day observed for some time 
the distant reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont 
Argcntiere in the calm of the lake, which I was 
crossing in my boat; the distance of these moun- 
tains from their mirror is sixty miles* 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



313 



The boldest steer but where their ports in- 
vite, 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored 
ne'er shall be. 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,i 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake. 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care. 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to in- 
flict or bear ? 

LXXII. 
I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me 
High mountains are a feeling,^ but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain. 
Classed among creatures, when the soul can 

flee. 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving 
plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

LXXIII. 
And thus I am absorbed, and this is life ; 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast. 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring. 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the 

blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted 

wing. 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round 

our being cling. 

LXXIV. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all 

free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 



1 The cjlor of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a 
depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in 
water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean 
and Archipelago. 

2 [" Mr. Hobhouse and myself are just returned 
from a journey of lakes and mountains. We have 
been to the Grindelwald, and the Jungfrau, and 
stood on the summit of the Wengen Alp; and seen 
torrents of goo feet in fall, and glaciers of all dimen- 
sions; we have heard shepherds' pipes, and ava- 
lanches, and looked on the clouds foaming up from 
the valleys below us like the spray of the ocean of 



When elements to elements conform. 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each 
spot ? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the im- 
mortal lot ? 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a 
part 

Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 

Is not the love of these deep in my heart 

With a pure passion ? should I not con- 
temn 

All objects, if compared with these ? and 
stem 

A tide of suffering, rather than forego 

Such feelings for the hard and worldly 
phlegm 

Of those whose eyes are only turned below. 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which 
dare not glow ? 

LXXVI. 
But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn. 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest. 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all 

rest. 

LXXVII. 
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rous- 

seau,3 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made hmi wretched ; yet 

he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly 

hue 4 

hell. Chamouni, and that which it inherits, we 
saw a month ago; but, though Mont Blanc is 
higher, it is not equal in wildiiess to the Jungfrau, 
the Eighers, the Shreckhorn, and the Rose Glaciers, 
Besides this, I have been over all the Bernese Alps 
and their lakes, and think many of the scenes 
(some of which were not those usually frequented 
by the English) finer than Chamouni. I have been 
to Clarens again, and crossed the mountains behind 
it." — Byrou^s Letters, September, i8i6.] 

3 [" I have traversed all Rousseau's ground with 
the ' Heloise ' before me, and am struck to a 
degree that I cannot express with the force and 
accuracy of his descriptions, and the beauty of 
their reality. Meillerie, Clarens, and Vevay, and 
the Chateau de Chillon, are olices of which I shall 
say little; because all T could say must fall short of 
the impressions they stamp." — Byroti's Letters.^ 

* [ " It is evident that the impassioned parts of 



314 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they 
past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feehngly 
and fast. 

LXXVIII. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamoured, were in him the 

same. 
But his was not the love of living dame. 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams. 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'eiflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distempered though 

it seems. 

LXXIX. 
This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; 
This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss 1 
Which every morn his fevered lip would 

greet. 
From hers, who but with friendship his 

would meet ; 



Rousseau's romance had made a deep impression 
upon the feelings of the noble poet. The enthu- 
siasm expressed by Lord Byron is no small tribute 
to the power possessed by Jean Jacques over the 
passions: and, to say truth, we needed some such 
evidence ; for, though almost ashamed to avow the 
truth, — still, like the barber of Midas, we must 
speak or die, — we have never been able to feel the 
interest or discover the merit of this far-famed per- 
formance. That there is much eloquence in the 
letters we readily admit: there lay Rousseau's 
strength. But his lovers, the celebrated St. Preux 
and Julie, have from the earliest moment we have 
heard the tale (which we well remember), down to 
the present hour, totally failed to interest us. There 
might be some constitutional hardness of heart; 
but like Lance's pebble-hearted cur, Crab, we 
remained dry-eyed while all wept around us. And 
still, on resuming the volume, even now, we can 
see little in the loves of these two tiresome pedants 
to interest our feelings for either of them. To state 
our opinion in language* much better than our own, 
we are unfortunate enough to regard this far-famed 
history of philosophical gallantry as an ' unfash- 
ioned, indelicate, sour, gloomy, ferocious medley of 
pedantr" and lewdness; of metaphysical specula- 
tions, blended with the coarsest sensuality.'" — 
Sir Walter Scott-I 

* This refers to the account in his" Confessions" 
of passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mis- 
tress of St. Lambert), and his long walk every 
morning, for the sake of the single kiss which was 
the common salutation of French acquaintance. 
Rousseau's description of his feelings on this occa- 
sion may be considered as the most passionate, yet 
not impure, description and expression of love that 
ever kindled into words; which, after all, must be 
felt, from their very force, to be inadequate to the 
delineation: a painting can give no sufficient idea 
of the ocean. 



* See Burke's Reflections. 



But to that gentle touch, through brain and 

breast 
Flashed the thrilled spirit's love-devouring 

heat; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek 

possest.2 

LXXX. 
His life was one long war with self-sought 

foes. 
Or friends by him self-banished ; for his 

mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and 

chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange 

and blind. 
But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who 

may know ? 
Since cause might be which skill could 

never find ; 
But he was phrensied by disease or woe, 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a 

reasoning show. 

LXXXL 
For then he was inspired, and from him 

came. 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave ot yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame. 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no 

more : 
Did he not this for France? which lay be- 
fore 
Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore. 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows 
o'ergrown fears ? 

LXXXII. 
They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which 

grew. 
Breathed from the birth of time : the veil 

they rent, 
And what behind it lay all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew. 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 



- [" Lord Byron's character of Rousseau is drawn 
with great force, great power of discrimination, and 
great eloquence. I know not that he says any thing 
which has not been said before, -7- but what he says 
issues, apparently, from the recesses of his own 
mind. It is a little labored, which, possibly, may 
be caused by the form of the stanza into which it 
was necessary to throw it; but it cannot be doubted 
that the poet felt a sympathy for the enthusiastic 
tenderness of Rousseau's genius, which he could 
not have recognized with such extreme fervor, ex- 
cept from a consciousness of having at least occa- 
sionally experienced similar emotions." — Sir E. 
Brydges.'l 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



315 



Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour 
refilled. 
As heretofore, because ambition was self- 
willed. 

LXXXIII. 
But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made 

it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 
On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had 

dwelt, 
Theywere not eagles, nourished with the day; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook 

their prey ? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a 

scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to 

wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been van- 
quished, bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years ; none need 

despair : 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the 

povver 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be 

slower. 

LXXXV. 
Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved. 
That I with stern delights should e'er have 

been so moved. 

LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet 

clear, » 
. Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights 

appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
There breathes a living fragrance from the 

shore. 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the 

ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night 

carol more : 



LXXXVII. 
He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill. 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her 
hues.i 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven, 
If in your bright leaves we would read the 

fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven. 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named 

themselves a star. 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not 
in sleep. 

But breathless, as we grow when feeling 
most; 

And silent, as we stand in thoughts too 
deep : — 

All heaven and earth are still : From the 
high host 

Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain- 
coast. 

All is concentred in a life intense. 

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 

But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

XC. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 

In solitude, where we are least alone ; 

A truth, which through our being then doth 

melt 
And purifies from self: it is a tone. 
The soul and source of music, which makes 

known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould 

disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power 

to harm. 



1 [During Byron's stay in Switzerland, he took 
up his residence at the Campagne-Diodati, in the 
village of Coligny. It stands at the top of a rapidly 
descending vineyard; the windows commanding, 
one way, a noble view of the lake and of Geneva; 
the other, up the lake. Every evening, the poet 



316 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



xci. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains,! and thus 

take 
A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek 
The Spirit in whose honor shrines are weak, 
Upreared of human hands. Come, and 

compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and 

air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy 

prayer I 

XCII, 
The sky is changed 1 — and such a change I 

Oh night. 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 

strong. 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder I Not from one lone 

cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a 

tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 



embarked on the lake; and to the feelings created 
by these excursions we owe these delightful stanzas.] 
1 It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful 
and impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of 
Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, hut 
on the Mount. To waive the question of devotion, 
and turn to human eloquence, — the most effectual 
and splendid specimens were not pronounced within 
walls. Demosthenes addressed the public and pop- 
ular assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That 
this added to their effect on the mind of both orator 
and hearers, may be conceived from the difference 
between what we read of the emotions then and 
there produced, and those we ourselves experience 
in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to read 
the Iliad at Sigaeum and on the tumuli, or by the 
springs with Mount Ida, above, and the plain and 
rivers and Archipelago around you, and another to 
trim your taper over it in a snug library — this I 
know. Were the early and rapid progress of what 
is called Methodism to be attributed to any cause 
beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement 
faith, and doctrines (the truth or error of which I 
presume neither to canvass nor to question), I 
should venture to ascribe it to the practice of 
preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and ex- 
temporaneous effusions of its teachers. The Mus- 
sulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least in the 
lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore im- 
pressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed 
orisons and prayers, wherever they may be, at the 
stated hours — of course, frequently in the open air, 
kneehng upon a light mat (which they carry for 
the purpose of a bed or ci:shion as required) : the 
ceremony lasts some minutes, during which they 
are totally absorbed, and only living in their sup- 
plication: nothing can disturb them. On me the 



XCIII. 
And this is in the night: — Most glorious 

night 1 
Thou wert not sent for slumber I let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 2 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the 

glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain- 
mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth- 
quake's birth.3 



Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way 

between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have 

parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 
hearted ! 
Though in their souls, which thus each othei 

thwarted. 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then 

departed ; 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves 

to wage. 

xcv. 
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft 

his way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his 

stand : 



simple and entire sincerity of these men, and the 
spirit which appeared to be within and upon them, 
made a far greater impression than any general 
rite which was ever performed in places of worship, 
of which I have seen those of almost every persua- 
sion under the sun: including most of our own 
sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Arme- 
nian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahom- 
etan. Many of the negroes, of whom there are 
numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, and 
have free exercise of their belief and its rites: some 
of these I had a distant view of at Patras; and, from 
what I could make out of them, they appeared to 
be of a truly Pagan description, and not very agree- 
able to a spectator. 

- The thunder-storm to which these lines refer 
occurred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I 
have seen, among the Acroceraunian mountains of 
Chimari, several more terrible, but none more beau- 
tiful. 

'■'' [" This is one of the most beautiful passages of 
the poem. The * fierce and far delight ' of a thun- 
der-storm is here described in verse almost as vivid 
as its lightnings. The live thunder ' leaping among 
the rattling crags ' — the voice of mountains, as if 
shouting to each other — the plashing of the big 
rain — the gleaming of the wide lake, lisjhted like a 
phosphoric sea — present a picture of sublime terror, 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 



317 



For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to 

hand, 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath 

forked 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation worked. 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever 

therein lurked. 

XCVI. 
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, light- 
nings ! ye ! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and 

a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful; the 

far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest.i 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high 

nest ? 

XCVII. 
Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I 

wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus 

throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong 

or weak. 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one 

word, 
And that one word were Lightning, I would 

speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it 

as a sword. 

yet of enjoyment, often attempted, but never so well, 
certainly never better brought out in poetry." — 
Sir Walter Scott.], 

* [The Journal of his Swiss tour, which Byron 
kept for his sister, closes with the following mourn- 
ful passage: — "In the weather, for this lour, of thir- 
teen days, I have been very fortunate — fortunate 
in a companion " (Mr. Hobhouse) — " fortunate in 
our prospects, and exempt from even the little petty 
accidents and delays which often render journeys 
in a less wild country disappointing. I was dis- 
posed to be pleased. I am a lover of nature, and 
an admirer of beauty. I can bear fatigue, and wel- 
come privation, and have seen some of the noblest 
views in the world. But in all this, — the recollec- 
tion of bitterness, and more especially of recent and 
more horne desolation, which must accompany me 
through life, has preyed upon me here; and neither 
the music of the shepherd, the crashing of the ava- 
lanche, nor the torrent, the mountain, the glacier, 
the forest, nor the cloud, have for one moment 
lightened the weight upon my heart, nor enabled 
me to lose my own wretched identity, in the ma- 



XCVIII, 
The morn is up again, the dewy morn, . 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all 

bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn. 
And living as if earth contained no tomb, — 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find 

room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if pondered 

fittingly. 

xcix. 
Clarens ! sweet Clarens,2 birthplace of deep 

Love, 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate 

thought. 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows 

• above 
The very Glaciers have his colors caught. 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them 

wrought 
By rays which sleep there lovingly: the 

rocks. 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, 

who sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks. 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that 

woos, then mocks. 



Clarens! byheavenlyfeet thypaths are trod, — 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where 

the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower 



jesty, and the power, and the glory, around, above, 
and beneath me."j 

^ [Stanzas xcix. to cxv. are exquisite. They 
have every thing which makes a poetical picture of 
local and particular scenery perfect. They exhibit 
a miraculous brilliancy and force of fancy; but the 
very fidelity causes a little constraint and labor of 
language. The poet seems to have been so en- 
grossed by the attention to give vigor and fire to 
the imagery, that he both neglected and disdained 
to render himself more harmonious by diffiiser 
words, which, while they might have improved the 
effect upon the ear, might have weakened the im- 
pression upon the mind. This mastery over new 
matter — this supply of powers equal not only to an 
untouched subject, but that subject one of peculiar 
and unequalled grandeur and beauty — was suffi- 
cient to occupy the strongest poetical faculties, 
young as the author was, without adding to it all 
the practical skill of the artist. The stanzas, too, 
on Voltaire and Gibbon are discriminative, saga- 
cious, and just. They are among the proofs of that 
very great variety of talent which this Canto of 
Lord Byron exhibits. — Sir E. Brydges,\ 



318 



CmiDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMACE. 



His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath 

blown 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender 

power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most 

desolate hour.i 

CI. 

All things are here of him; from the black 

pines. 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud 

roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to 

the shore, 
Where the bowed waters meet him, and 

adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the 

wood. 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where 

it stood. 
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 



1 '• Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part. 4, note. 
" Ces montagnes sont si hautes qu'une demi-heure 
apres le soleil couche, leurs sommets sont dclaires 
de ses rayons; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes 
blanches U7ie belle coule7ir de rose, qu'on apper- 
9oit de fort loin." — This applies more particularly 
to the heights over Meillerie. — " J'allai k Vevay lo- 
ger a la Clef, et pendant deux jours que j'y restai sans 
voir personne, je pris pour cette ville un amour qui 
m'a suividans tons mesvoyages,et qui m'y afait etab- 
lir enfin les heros de mon roman. Jediroisvolontiers 
St ceux qui ont du gout et qui sont sensibles : Allez a 
Vevay — visitez le pays, examinez les sites, prome- 
nez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce 
beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour 
un St. Preux; mais ne les y cherchez pas." — Les 
Confessi'oHS, Livre iv. p. 306. Lyons, ed. 1796. — 
In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake of 
Geneva; and, as far as my own observations have 
led me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey 
of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his 
" Heloise," I can safely say, that in this there is no 
exaggeration. It would be difficult to see Clarens 
(with the scenes around it, Vevay. Chillon, Bove- 
ret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, Eivan, and the entrances 
of the Rhone) without being forcibly struck with its 
peculiar adaptation to the persons and events with 
which it has been peopled. But this is not all : the 
feeling with which all around Clarens, and the oppo- 
site rocks of Meillerie, is invested, is of a still higher 
and more comprehensive order than the mere sym- 
pathy with individual passion ; it is a sense of the 
existence of love in its most extended and sublime 
capacity, and of our own participation of its good 
and of its glory : it is the great principle of the uni- 
verse, which is there more condensed, but not less 
manifested; and of which, though knowing our- 
selves a part, we lose our individuality, and mingle 
in the beauty of the whole. — If Rousseau had never 
written, nor lived, the same associations would not 
less have belonged to such scenes. He has added 
to the interest of his works by their adoption; he 
has shown his sense of their beauty by the selection ; 
but they have done that for him which no human 



CII. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-formed and many-colored things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet 

than words. 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which 

brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one 

mighty end. 

cin. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn 

that lore, 
And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more. 
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's 

woes. 
And the world's waste, have driven him far 

from those, 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 



being could do for them. — I had the fortune (good 
or evil as it might be) to sail from Meillerie (where 
we landed for some time) to St. Gingo during a lake 
storm, which added to the magnificence of all 
around, although occasionally accompanied by dan- 
ger to the boat, which was small and overloaded. 
It was over this very part of the lake that Rousseau 
has driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame Wol- 
mar to Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. On 
gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that the 
wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down 
some fine old chestnut trees on the lower part of 
the mountains. On the opposite height of Clarens 
is a chateau. The hills are covered with vineyards, 
and interspersed with some small but beautiful 
woods; one of these was named the " Bosquet de 
Julie; " and it is remarkable that, though long ago 
cut down by the brutal selfishness of the monks of 
St. Bernard (to whom the land appertained), that 
the ground might be inclosed into a vineyard for 
the miserable drones of an execrable superstition, 
the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the spot 
where its trees stood, calling it by the name which 
consecrated and survived them. Rousseau has not 
been particularly fortunate in the preservation of 
the "local habitations" he has given to "airy 
nothings." The Prior of Great St. Bernard has cut 
down some of his woods for the sake of a few casks 
of wine, and Bonaparte has levelled part of the 
rocks of Meillerie in improving the road to the 
Simplon. The road is an excellent one, but I can- 
not quite agree with the remark which I heard 
made, that " La route vaut mieux que les souve- 
nirs." [During the squall off Meillerie, of which 
Byron here makes mention, the danger of the parly 
was considerable. At Ouchy, near Lausanne, he 
was detained two days, in a small inn, by the 
weather: and here it was that he wrote, in that 
short interval, the "Prisoner of Chillon;" "add- 
ing," says Moore, " one more deathless association 
to the already immortalized localities of the Lake."] 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILCRTMAGE. 



319 



Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 



'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this 

spot, 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the 

ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone un- 
bound, 
And hallowed it with loveliness : 'tis lone, 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. 
And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the 
Rhone 
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have 
reared a throne. 

cv. 
Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the 

abodes 
Of names which unto you bequeathed a 

name ; 1 
Mortals, who sought and found, by danger- 
ous roads 
A path to perpetuity of fame : 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep 

aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down thunder, 

and the flame 
Of Heaven, again assailed, if Heaven the 

while 
On man and man's research could deign do 

more than smile. 

CVI. 

The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 

Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, 

A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or 

wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined; 
He multiplied himself among mankind. 
The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the 

wind. 
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — 
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a 

throne. 

CVII. 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting 

thought, 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year. 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought. 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; | 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew 

from fear, 

1 Voltaire and Gibbon. 



And doomed him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CVIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 

If merited, the penalty is paid ; 

It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 

The hour must come when such things shall 
be made 

Known unto all, — or hope and dread al- 
layed 

By slumber, on one pillow — in the dust, 

Which, thus much we are sure, must lie de- 
cayed ; 

And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 

Cix. 
But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and sus- 
pend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end ; 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, 
where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers 
of air. 



Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee. 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won 

thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; 

still, 
The fount at which the panting mind as- 
suages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quafiing there her 
fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's im- 
perial hill. 

CXI. 
Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renewed with no kind auspices : — to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be, — and to 

steel 
The heart against itself; and to conceal, 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or 

aught, — 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought. 
Is a stern task of soul: — No matter, — it is 
taught. 

CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song 
It may be that they are a harmless wile,-- 



320 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; 
I stood and stand alone, — remembered or 

forgot. 

CXIII. 
I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
I have not flattered its rank breath, nor 

bowed 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coined my cheek to smiles, — nor cried 

aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I 

stood 
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, 

and still could. 
Had I not filed i my mind, which thus itself sub- 
dued. 

cxiv. 
I have not loved the world, nor the world 

me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe. 
Though I have found them not, that there 

may be 
Words which are things, — hopes which will 

not deceive. 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely 

grieve ; 2 
That two, or one, are almost what they 

seem, — 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no 

dream.3 



If it be thus. 



For Banquo's issue have \ filed my mind." • 
Macbeth. 

2 It is said by Rochefoucault, that " there is al- 
ways something in the misfortunes of men's best 
friends not displeasing to them." 

^ ["It is not the temper and talents of the poet, 
but the use to which he puts them, on which his 
happiness or misery is grounded. A powerful and 
unbridled imagination is the author and architect 
of its own disappointments. Its fascinations, its 
exaggerated pictures of good and evil, and the 
mental distress to which they give rise, are the 
natural and necessary evils attending on that quick 
susceptibility of feeling and fancy incident to the 
poetical temperament. But the Giver of all talents, 
while he has qualified them each with its separate 
and peculiar alloy, has endowed the owner with the 
power of purifying and refining them. But, as if to 
moderate the arrogance of genius, it is justly and 
wisely made requisite, that he must regulate and tame 
the fire of his fancy, and descend from the heights to 
which she exalts him, in order to obtain ease of 
mind and tranquillity. The materials of happiness, 



CXV. 
My daughter ! with thy name this song be- 
gun — 
My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall 

end — 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold. 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is 

cold, — 
A token and a tone, even from thy father's 

mould. 

cxvi. 
To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to 

thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for 

me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet something like to 

this. 

CXVI I. 
Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be 

taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my 

name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still 

fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed betweei* us, — 

'twere the same, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though to 

drain 
My blood from out thy being were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
Still thou would'st love me, still that more than 

life retain. 

CXVIII. 

The child of love, — though born in bitter- 
ness 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no 

less. 



that is, of such degree of happiness as is consistent 
with our present state, lie around us in profusion. 
But the man of talents must stoop to gather them, 
otherwise they would be beyond the reach of the 
mass of society, for whose benefit, as well as for 
his. Providence has created them. There is no 
royal and no poetical path to contentment and 
heart's-ease: that by which they are attained is 
open to all classes of mankind, and lies within the 
most limited range of intellect. To narrow our 
wishes and desires within the scope of our powers 
of attainment; to consider our misfortunes, how- 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



321 



As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 

Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far 
higher. 

Sweet be thy cradled slumbers I O'er the 
sea, 

And from the mountains where I now re- 
spire, 

Fain would I waft such blessing upon 
thee, 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been 
to me ! 

ever peculiar in their character, as our inevitable 
share in the patrimony of Adam; to bridle those 
irritable feelings, which imgoverned are sure to be- 
come governors; to shun that intensity of galling 



and self-wounding reflection which our poet has so 
forcibly described in his own burning language: — 

' I have thought 

Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy, boiling and o'erwrought, 

A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame ' 

— to stoop, in short, to the realities of life; repent 
if we have offended, and pardon if we have been 
trespassed against; to look on the world less as our 
foe than as a doubtful and capricious friend, whose 
applause we ought as far as possible to deserve, but 
neither to court nor contemn — such seem the most 
obvious and certain means of keeping or regaining 
mental tranquillity. 

' Semita certe 

Tranquillse per virtutem patet unica vit«.'" — • 
Sir Walter Scott, '\ 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, 
Quel Monte che divide, e quel che serra 
Italia, e un mare e 1' altro, che la bagna. 

Ariosto, Satira iii. 



TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. Etc. Etc. 

Venice, January 2, 1818. 

Mv Dear Hobhouse, — After an interval of eight years between the composition of the first and last 
cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting 
with so old a friend, it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better, — to one who 
has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the social advantages 
of an enlightened friendship, than — though not ungrateful— I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for 
any public favor reflected through the poem on the poet, — to one, whom I have known long, and accom- 
panied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity 
and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril, — to a friend often tried and never found 
wanting; — to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth ; and in dedicating to you in its complete, or at least con- 
cluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my compo- 
sitions, I wish to do honor to myself by the record of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, of 
talent, of steadiness, and of honor. It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flattery; yet the 
praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship; and it is not for you, nor even 
for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to the 
encounter of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate your good 
qualities, or rather the advantages which I have derived from their exertion. Even the recurrence of the 
date of this letter, the anniversary of the most unfortunate day of my past existence, 1 but which cannot 
poison my future while I retain the resource of your friendship, and of my own faculties, will henceforth 
have a more agreeable recollection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank 
you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could experience without 
thinking better of his species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, the countries of chivalrj', history, and 
•fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy; and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few 



1 His marriage. 



322 CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

years ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have 
accompanied me from first to last: and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to 
reflect with complacency on a composition which in some degree connects me with the spot where it was 
produced, and the objects it would fain describe; and however unworthy it may be deemed of those 
magical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate 
impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and of feeling for what is glorious, it has been 
to me a source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly 
suspected that events could have left me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the 
preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking in his own person. The 
fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which every one seemed determined not to perceive : 
like the Chinese in Goldsmith's " Citizen of the World," whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it 
was in vain that I asserted, and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction between the author and the pil- 
grim; and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disappointment at finding it unavailing, so far 
crushed my efforts in the composition, that I determined to abandon it altogether — and have done so. 
The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference; the 
work is to depend on itself and not on the writer; and the author, who has no resources in his own mind 
beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the 
fate of authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was my intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have 
touched upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the 
limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external objects, and the consequent 
reflections; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and 
these were necessarily limited to the elucidation of the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so 
dissimilar; and requires an attention and impartiality which would induce us — though perhaps no inat- 
tentive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst whom we have recently 
abode — to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more narrowly examine our information. The 
state of literary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to 
steer impartially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough, then, at least for my purpose, 
to quote from their own beautiful language — " Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vante la lingua 
la piu nobile ed insieme la piu dolce, tutte tutte la vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di 
Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto 1' antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima." Italy'has 
great names still — Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, 
Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present generation an honorable 
place in most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles Lettres; and in some the very highest^ 
Europe — the World — has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La pianta uomo nasce piii robusta in Italia che in qua- 
lunque altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova." Without 
subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed 
on better grounds, namely that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbors, that 
man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of 
this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the 
rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and, amidst all the disadvan- 
tages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair of ages, their still unquenched 
"longing after immortality," — the immortality of independence. And when we ourselves, in riding 
round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the laborers' chorus, " Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma 
non e piu come era prima," it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar 
of the songs of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and 
the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have 
exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me, — 

" Non movero mai corda 
Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



323 



What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till 
it becomes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a sus- 
pended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and 
especially in the South, " Verily they will have their reward," and at no very distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can 
be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state; and repeat once 
more how truly I am ever. 

Your obliged and affectionate friend, 

Byron. 



I. 

I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; i 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject 

land 
Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles. 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her 

hundred isles. 

II. 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,2 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was; — her daughters had 

their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless 

East 
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling 

showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity 

increased. 



In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,3 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumblmg to the shore. 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is 

here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not 

die. 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 



1 See " Historical Notes," at the end of this 
Canto, No. I. 

2 Sabellicus, describing the appearance of Venice, 
has made use of the above image, which would not 
be poetical were it not true. — "Quo fit ut qui 
supeme urbem contempletur, turritam telluris imag- 
inem medio Oceano figuratam se putet inspicere." 

3 See " Historical Notes," at the end of this 
Canto, No. II. 



IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 

Her name in story, and her long array 

Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms 

despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanished sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were 

o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 



The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 

Essentially immortal, they create 

And multiply in us a brighter ray 

And more beloved existence : that which 

Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits sup- 
plied. 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have 
died. 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the 
void. 

VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age. 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that which grows beneath 

mine eye. 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the 

Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse; 

VII. 

I saw or dreamed of such, — but let them 

go,— 
They came like truth, and disappeared like 

dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would ; still teems 



324 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PLLGRIMAGE. 



My mind with many a form which aptly 
seems 

Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 

Let these too go — for waking Reason deems 

Such overweening pliantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights sur- 
round. 

VIII. 

I've taught me other tongues — and in 

strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Yet was 1 born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave be- 
hind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free. 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX. 
Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remembered in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and 

far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are. 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion 

bar 

X. 
My name from out the temple where the 

dead 
Are honored by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier son than 

he." 1 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reaped are of the 

tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, — and I 

bleed : 
I should have known what fruit would spring 

from such a seed. 

XI. 
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more re- 
newed. 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored. 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 2 
Stand, but in mockery of his withered power. 



1 The answer of the mother of Brasidas, the 
Lacedaemonian general, to the strangers who 
praised the memory of hei son. 

2 See " Historical Notes," Nos. III., IV., V. 



Over the proud Place where an Emperor 

sued. 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequalled 

dower. 

XII. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian 
reigns — 2 

An Emperor tramples where an Emperor 
knelt; 

Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and 
chains 

Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 

From power's high pinnacle, when they 
have felt 

The sunshine for a while, and downward go 

Like lauwine loosened from the mountain's 
beh; 

Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 2 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquer- 
ing foe. 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? 3 
Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and 

won. 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done. 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and 

shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous 

repose. 

XIV. 

In youth she was all glory, — anew Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The " Planter of the Lion," ^ which through 

fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and 

sea; 
Though making many slaves, herself still 

free. 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can 

blight. 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shivered — the long 
file 

Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 

But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptu- 
ous pile 

Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 



8 See " Historical Notes," No. VI. 

^ That is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of 
the republic, which is the origin of the word Panta- 
loon — Piantaleone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 



325 



Their sceptre broken, and their sword in 

rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as 

must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthralls,! 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely 

walls. 

XVI.' 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse.'-^ 
Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's 

chains. 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and 

his strams. 

XVII. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were 

thine. 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen should 

not 
Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery 

wall. 

XVIII. 

I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart. 
Rising like water-columns from the sea. 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otwav, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's 

art,3 
Had stamped her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part. 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe. 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a 

show. 

XIX. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought. 
And meditation chastened down, enough; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or 

sought ; 
And of the happiest moments which were 

wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 



1 See " Historical Notes," at the end of this 
Canto, No. VII. 

- The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 

^Venice Preserved; Mysteries ofUdolpho; the 
Ghost Seer, or Armenian; the Merchant of Venice; 
Othello. 



From thee, fair Venice ! have their colors 

caught : 
There are some feelings Time cannot be- 
numb. 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be 

cold and dumb. 

XX. 
But from their nature will the tannen grow * 
Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine 

shocks 
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, 

and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and 

frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose 

blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came. 
And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow 

the same. 

XXI. 

Existence may be born, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestowed 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood. 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 
All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed. 
Even by the sufferer; and, in each event. 
Ends : — Some, with hope replenished and 

rebuoyed. 
Return to whence they came — with like in- 
tent. 
And weave their web again ; some, bowed 

and bent. 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their 

time, 
And perish with the reed on which they 

leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were formed to sink 
or climb : 

XXIII. 
But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting. 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness im- 
bued ; 
And slight withal may be the things which 
bring 



* Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir 
peculiar to the Alps, which only thrives in very 
rocky parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its 
nourishment can be found. On these spots it 
grows to a greater height than any other mountain 
tree. 



326 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Back on the heart the weight which it would 

fling 
Aside forever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or 

spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which 

shall wound, 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we., are 

darkly bound ; 

XXIV. 
And how and why we know not, nor can 

trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the 

mind, 
But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves 

behind. 
Which out of things familiar, undesigned. 
When least we deem of such, calls up to 

view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind. 
The cold — the changed — perchance the 

dead — anew. 
The mourned, the loved, the lost — too many ! 

— yet how few I 

XXV. 
But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a 

land 
Which 7vas the mightiest in its old com- 
mand. 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly 

hand. 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth 
and sea. 

XXVI. 
The commonweahh of kings, the men of 

Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature i can decree ; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 



1 [The whole of this canto is rich in description 
of Nature. The love of Nature now appears as a 
distinct passion in Byron's mind. It is a love that 
does not rest in beholding, nor is satisfied with de- 
scribing, what is before him. It has a power and 
being, blending itself with the poet's very life 
Though Byron had, with his real eyes, perhaps, 
seen more of Nature than ever was before per- 
mitted to any great poet, yet he never before 
seemed to open his whole heart to her genial im- 
pulses. But in this he is changed: and in this and 
the fourth Cantos of Childe Harold, he will stand 
a comparison with the best descriptive poets, in 
this age of descriptive poetry. — Professor Wilson. \ 



More rich than other climes' fertility; 
Thy wreck of glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which can not be 
defaced. 



The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's 
crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the 
blest ! 2 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but 

sdll 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rheetian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaimed her order : — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues 

instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 
Which streams upon her stream, and 

glassed within it glows, 

XXIX. 

Filled with the face of heaven, which, from 

afar 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, ^ 

Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change; a paler shadow 

strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang 

imbues 
With a new color as it gasps away, 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and 

all is gray. 

XXX. 

There is a tomb in Arqua ; — reared in air, 
Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover : here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung wo'-s 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 



' The above description may seem fantastical or 
exaggerated to those who have never seen an 
i Oriental or an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and 
hardly sufficient delineation of an August evening 
(the eighteentTi), as contemplated in one of many 
rides along the banks of the Brenta, near La Mira. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



327 



Watering the tree which bears liis lady's 
name i 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to 
fame. 

XXXI. 
Th^y keep his dust in Arqua, where he 

died ; 1 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their 

pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid formed his monumental 
fane. 

XXXII. 
And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 2 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt. 
And sought a refuge from their hopes de- 
cayed 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 

XXXIII. 
Developing the mountains, leaves, and 

flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by. 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering 
hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 



1 See " Historical Notes," Nos. VIII. and IX. 

2 [" Halfway up 

He built his house, whence as by stealth he 
caught 

Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life 

That soothed, not stirred." 

" I have built, among the Euganean hills, a 
small house, decent and proper; in which I hope to 
pass the rest of my days, thinking always of my 
dead or absent friends." Among those still living 
was Boccaccio, who is thus mentioned by him in his 
will: — "To Don Giovanni of Certaldo, for a 
winter gown at his evening studies, I leave fifty 
golden florins; truly, little enough for so great a 
man." When the Venetians overran the country, 
Petrarch prepared for flight. " Write your Name 
over your door," said one of his friends, " and you 
will be safe." " I am not sure of that," replied 
Petrarch, and fled with his books to Padua. His 
books he left to the republic of Venice, laying, as it 
were, a foundation for the library of St. Mark; but 
they exist no longer. His legacy to Francis 
Carrara, a Madonna painted by Giotto, is still pre- 
served in the Cathedral of Padua. — Rogers.] 



'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; 
It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
No hollow aid; alone — man with his God 
must strive : 

XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 3 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek 

their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture froin their earliest day. 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a dooiu 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier 

gloom. 

XXXV. 
Ferrara ! ^ in thy wide and grass-grown 

streets. 
Whose syinmetry was not for solitude. 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of 

yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty, power impelled, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had 

worn before. 

XXXVI. 
And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain 1 and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earned Torquato'sfame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and 

blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without 

end 
Scattered the clouds away — and on that name 

attend 

XXXVII. 
The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted 

line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming theewith scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 

3 The struggle is to the full as likely to be with 
demons as with our better thoughts. Satan chose 
the wilderness for the temptation of our Saviour. 
And our unsullied John Locke preferred the pres- 
ence of a child to complete solitude. 

•» [In April, 1817, Byron visited Ferrara, went over 
the castle, cell, etc., and wrote, a few days after, the 
Lament of Tasso.] 



32S 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



From thee ! if in another station born, 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st 
to mourn, 

XXXVIII. 

Thou! formed to eat, and be despised, and 

die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 
He ! with a glory round his furrowed brow. 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow i 
No strain which shamed his country's 

creaking lyre, 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in 

wire ! 

XXXIX, 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas 

his 
In life and death to be the mark where 

Wrong 
Aimed with her poisoned arrows ; but to 

miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song ! 
Each year brings forth its millions ; but how 

long 
The tide of generations shall roll on. 
And not the whole combined and countless 

throng 
Compose a mind like thine ? though all in 

one 
Condensed their scattered rays, they would 



not form a sun. 



XL. 



Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine. 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 
The I'uscan father's comedy divine ; 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott,^ tiie minstrel who called 

forth 
A new creation with his magic line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang iadye-love and war, romance and 

kniglitly worth. 



1 See " Historical Notes," at the end of this 
Canto, No. X. 

- [" Scott," says Byron, in his MS, Diary, for 
1821, " is certainly the most wonderful writer of the 
day. His novels are a new literature in them- 
selves, and his poetry as good as any — if not better 
(only on an erroneous system), — and only ceased 
to be sc popular, because the vulgar were tired of 
hearing ' Aristides called the Just,' and Scott the 
best, and ostracized him. I know no reading to 
which I fall with such alacrity as a work of his. I 
love him, too, for his manliness of character, for the 
extreme pleas.intness of his conversation, and his 
good nature towards myself, personally. May he 
prtsperl for he deserves it." In a letter, written 
to Sir Walter, from Pisa, in 1822, he says — " I owe 
to you far more than the usual obligation for the 



XLI. 
The lightning rent from Ariosto's busts 
The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves ; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory 

weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves,^ 
And the false semblance but disgraced hisi 

brow ; 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves. 
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 3 
Whate'er it strikes; — yon head is doubly 

sacred now. 

XLII. 
Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past; 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by 

shame. 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh, God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst 

claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, whO' 

press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy 

distress ; 

XLIII. 
Then might'st thou more appall; or, less: 

desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still un- 

tired. 
Would not be seen the armed torrents 

poured 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile^ 

horde 
Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's s 

sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend 

or foe.4 



courtesies of literature and common friendship; for 
you went out of your way, in 1817, to do me a ser- 
vice, when it required not merely kindness, but 
courage, to do so; to have been recorded by you in 
such a manner, would have been a proud memorial 
at any time, but at such a time, when ' All the 
world and his wife,' as the proverb goes, were try- 
ing to trample upon me, was something still higher 
to my self-esteem. Had it been a common criti- 
cism, however eloquent or paneg^'rical, I should 
have felt pleased and grateful, but not to the extent 
which the extraordinary good-heartedness of the 
whole proceeding must induce in any mind capable 
of such sensations."] 

3 See " Historical Notes," at the end of this Canto, 
Nos. XI. XII. XIII. 

* The two stanzas xlii. and xliii. are, with the ex- 
ception of a line or two, a translation of the famous 
sonnet of Filicaja: — " Italia, Italia, O tu cut feo la 
sorte ! " 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



329 



XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of 

hini.i 
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal 

mind, 
The friend of Tully ; as my bark did skim 
The bright bi,ue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
yEgina lay, Piraeus on the right. 
And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
[n ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

XLV. 

For Time hath not rebuilt them, but up- 
reared 
Barbaric dwellings on their shattered site, 
Which only make more mourned and more 

endeared 
The few last rays of their far-scattered light, 
And the crushed relics of their vanished 

might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age. 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
rhe moral lesson bears, drawn from such pil- 
grimage. 

XLVT. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perished states he mourned in their de- 
cline, 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the 

storm. 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form,2 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still 
are warm. 



1 The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to 
Ci'Tcro, on the death of his daughter, describes as it 
then was, and now is, a path which I often traced 
in Greece, both by sea and land, in difierent jour- 
neys and voyages. " On my return front Asia, as I 
was sailing from ^gina towards Megara, I began 
to contemplate the prospect of the countries around 
me: yEgina was behind, Megara before me; Piraeus 
on the right, Corinth on the left: all which towns, 
once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned 
and buried in their ruins. Upon this sight, I could 
not but think presently within myself, Alas! how 
do we poor mortals fret and vex ourselves if any of 
our friends happen to die or be killed, whose life is 
yret so short, when the carcasses of so many noble 
cities lie here exposed before me in one view." — 
See Middletoti's Cicero, vol. ii. p. 371. 

2 It is Poggio, who, looking frorri the Capitoline 
hill upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the excla- 
mation, "Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata 
jacet, instar gigantei cadaveris corrupti atqne im- 
dique exesi." 



Yet, Italy ! through every other land 

Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side 

to side ; 
Mother of Arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our 

guide ; 
Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide. 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward 

driven. 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 

XLVIII. 

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and 

keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling .Arno sweeps 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new 
morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and 

fills 3 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn , within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when Nature's self 

would fail ; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could 

mould : 

L. 

We gaze and turn away, and know notwhere, 
Dazzled anddrunk with beauty, till the heart ^ 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever 

there — 
Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away! — there need no words, nor terms 

precise. 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 



3 See " Historical Notes," at the end of this Canto, 
No. XIV. 

* [In 1817, Byron visited Florence, on his way to 
Rome. " I remained," he says, " but a day: how- 
ever, I went to the two galleries, from which one 
returns drunk with beauty. The Venus is more 
for adrniration than love; but there are sculpture 
and painting, which, for the first time, at all gave 
me an idea of what people mean by their cant 
about those two most artificial of arts."] 



330 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dar- 
dan Shepherd's prize. 

LI. 

Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of 

War? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star. 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn. 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! i while thy lips 

are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn. 
Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as 

from an urn ! 2 

LII. 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's 
fate 



^ '0(f>6a\fxov^ e<TTLav. 

" Atque oculos pascat uterque suos." 

Ovid. Afnor. lib. ii. 

2 [The delight with which the pilgrim contem- 
plates the ancient Greek statues at Florence, and 
afterwards at Rome, is such as might have been 
expected from any great poet, whose youthful mind 
had, like his, been imbued with those classical ideas 
and associations which afford so many sources of 
pleasure through every period of life. He has 
gazed upon these masterpieces of art with a more 
susceptible, and, in spite of his disavowal, with a 
more learned eye, than can be traced in the effu- 
sions of any poet who had previously expressed, in 
any formal manner, his admiration of their beauty. 
It may appear fanciful to say so; — but we think 
the genius of Byron is, more than that of any other 
modern poet, akin to that peculiar genius which 
seems to have been diffused among all the poets 
and artists of ancient Greece; and in whose spirit, 
above all its other wonders, the great specimens of 
sculpture seem to have been conceived and execu- 
ted. His creations, whether of beauty or of strength, 
are all single creations. He requires no grouping 
to give effect to his favorites, or to tell his story. 
His heroines are solitary symbols of loveliness, 
which require no foil; his heroes stand alone as 
upon rnarble pedestals, displaying the naked power 
of passion, or the wrapped up and reposing energy 
of grief. The artist who would illustrate, as it is 
called, the works of any of our other poets, must 
borrow the mimic splendors of the pencil. He who 
would transfer into another vehicle the spirit of 
Byron, must pour the liquid metal, or hew the stub- 
born rock. What he loses in ease, he will gain in 
Eower, He might draw from Medora, Gulnare, 
.ara, or Manfred, subjects for relievos, worthy of 
enthusiasm almost as great as Harold has himself 
displayed on the contemplation of the loveliest and 
the sternest relics of the inimitable genius of the 
Greeks. — Professor lViiso?t.] 



Has moments hke their brightest; but th 

weight 
Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create, 
From what has been, or might be, thing' 

which grow 
Into thy statue's form, and Jock like godi 

below. 

LIII. 
I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
The artist and his ape,3 to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuoui 

swell : 
Let these describe the undescribable : 
I would not their vile breath should ens'; 

the stream 

Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 

The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 

That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beanffi 

LIV. 
In Santa Croce's holy precincts He 4 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality. 
Though there were nothing save the pas 

and this. 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here re 

pose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his,'* 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here MachiaveUi's earth returned to whenc 

it rose.4 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the eld{ 

ments. 
Might fiarnish forth creation : — Italy ! 



3 [Only a week before the poet visited the Flor 
ence gallery, he wrote thus to a friend: — ''I kno^ 
nothing of painting. Depend upon it, of all th 
arts, it is the most artificial and unnatural, and thj 
by which the nonsense of mankind is most impose 
upon. I never yet saw the picture or the statu 
which came a league within my conception or e> 
pectation; but I have seen many mountains, an 
seas, and rivers, and views, and two or three womer 
who went as far beyond it." — Byron's Letters.^ 

* See " Historical Notes," at the end of this Cantc 
Nos. XV. XVI. XVII. — ["The church of Sant 
Croce contains much illustrious nothing. Th 
tombs of Machiavelli, Michael Angelo, Galileo, an 
Alfieri, make it the Westminster Abbey of Italy, 
did not admire any of these tombs — beyond thei 
contents. That of Alfieri is heavy; and all of then 
seem to me overloaded. What is necessary but 
bust and name? and perhaps a date? the last fo 
the unchronological, of whom I am one. But al 
your allegory and eulogy is infernal, and wors 
than the long wigs of English numskulls upoi 
Roman bodies, in the statuary of the reigns c 
Charles the Second, William, and Anne." — Byron'. 
Letters, 1817.] 



CniLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



331 



Time, which hath wronged thee with ten 

thousand rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity. 
Which gilds "it with revivifying ray ; 
mch as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 



But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than 

they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did 

they lay 
Their bones, distinguished from our com- 
mon clay 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles nought to 

say ? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one 
bust? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth 
intrust ? 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,i 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding 

shore ; i 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war. 
Proscribed the bard whose name for ever- 
more 
Their children's children would in vain 

adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown i 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely 

wore. 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — 
not thine own. 

LVIII. 
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed i 
His dust, — and lies it not her Great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem 

breathed 
O'er him who formed the Tuscan's siren 

tongue ? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech? No; — even his 

tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong. 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for 

whom / 



And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 



1 See " Historical Notes," at the end of his Canto, 
Nos. XVIII. XIX. XX. and XXI. 



The Cx'sar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her 

more : 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire 1 honored sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banished 
dead and weeps. 

LX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 2 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to incrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, in- 
fuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the 

dead. 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the 

princelv head. 

LXI. 
There be more things to greet the heart 

and eyes 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely 

shrine. 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister 

vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for 

mine; 
For I have been accustomed to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields. 
Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which 

it wields 

LXII. 
Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the 

shore. 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files. 
And torrents, swollen to rivers with their 

gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions 

scattered o'er, 

LXIII. 
Like to a forest felled by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day. 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion 

blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reeled unheededly away 1 3 



2 See " Historical Notes," at tlie end of this 
Canto, No. XXII. 

» See " Historical Notes," at the end of this 



332 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRTAfAGE. 



None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who 

lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring na- 
tions meet ! 

LXIV. 
The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
In them suspended, recked not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and 

the birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge and with- 
draw 
From their down-toppling nests ; and bel- 
lowing herds 
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread 
hath no words. 

LXV. 
Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath 

ta'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine 

rain; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling 

waters red. 

LXVI. 
But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave i 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou 

dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white 

steer 
Grazes ; the purest God of gentle waters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by 

slaughters — 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest 

daughters ! 

LXVI I, 
And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps. 



Canto, No. XXIII. — [An earthquake which shook 
all Italy occurred during the battle, and was unfelt 
by any of the combatants.] 

1 No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on 
the temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and 
Spoleto; and no site, or scenery, even in Italy, is 
more worthy a description. For an account of the 
dilapidation of this temple, the reader is referred to 
" Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of 
Childe Harold," p- 35. ' 



Upon a mild dechvity of hill. 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leap 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps 
W^hile, chance, some scattered water-lil 

sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells iti 

bubbling tales, 

LXVIII. 
Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green. 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dus 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him yt 
must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.2 

LXIX. 
The roar of waters 1 — from the headlong 

height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters 1 rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss 
And boil in endless torture ; while the swea. 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks o 

jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence 

again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which 

round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 



2 ["Perhaps there are no verses in our language 
of happier descriptive power than the two stanzas 
which characterize the Clitumnus. In general poets 
find it so difficult to leave an interesting subject, 
that they injure the distinctness of the description 
by loading it so as to embarrass, rather than excite, 
the fancy of the reader; or else, to avoid that fault, 
they confine themselves to cold and abstract gener- 
alities. Byron has, in these stanzas, admirably 
steered his course betwixt these extremes: while 
they present the outlines of a picture as pure and 
as brilliant as those of Claude Lorraine, the task o\ 
filling up the more minute particulars is judiciously 
left to the imagination of the reader; and it must 
be dull indeed if it does not supply what the poet 
has left unsaid, or but generally and briefly inti- 
mated. While the eye glances over the lines, we 
seem to feel the refreshing coolness of the scene — 
we hear the bubbling tale of the more rapid streams, 
and see the slender proportions of the rural temple 
reflected in the crystal depth of the calm pool. 
Sir Walter Scott. 



CHI IDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



333^ 



Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious 

bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn 

and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a 

fearful vent 

LXXI. 

To the broad column which rolls on, and 

shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the 

throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which fiow gushingly, 
With many windings, through the vale : — 

Look back 1 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity. 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless 

cataract,! 

LXXII. 

Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering 

morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,2 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams un- 
shorn : 



1 I saw the " Cascata del marmore " of Terni 
:wice, at different periods; once from the summit 
>f the precipice, and again from the valley below. 
rhe lower view is far to be preferred, if the traveller 
las time for one only ; but in any point of view, 
;ither from above or below, it is worth all the cas- 
:ades and torrents of Switzerland put together: the 
5taub.ich, Reichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Ar- 
3enaz, etc. are rills in comparative appearance. 
3f the fall of Schaff hausen I cannot speak, not yet 
laving seen it. 

2 Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of 
ris, the reader will see a short account, in a note 
o Manfred. The fall looks so much like " the 
lell of waters," that Addison thought the descent 
dluded to by the gulf in which Alecto plunged into 
;he infernal regions. It is singular enough, that 
;wo of the finest cascades in Europe should be arti- 
icial — this of the Velino, and the one at Tivoli. 
rhe travellerls strongly recommended to trace the 
Velino, at least as high as the little lake, called Pie'' 
it Lup. The Reatine territory was the Italian 
fempe,* and the ancient naturalist, amongst other 
jeautiful varieties, remarked the daily rainbows of 
he lake Velinus.f A scholar of great name has 
devoted a treatise to this district alone. J 



Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene. 
Love watching Madness with unalterable 
mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the 

pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where 

roar 3 
The thundering lauwine — might be wor- 
shipped more ; 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and 
near. 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
For still they soared unutterably high : 
I've looked on Ida w-ith a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olympus, .^tna. Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity. 
All, save the lone Soracte's height, displayed 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's 

aid 

LXXV. 
For our remembrance, and from out the 

plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to 

break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorred 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drilled dull lesson, forced down word 

by word ^ 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 



, * Cicer. Epist. ad Attic, xv. lib. iv. 

t Plin. Hist. Nat. lib. ii. cap. Ixii. 

t Aid. Manut. de Reatina Urbe Agroque, ap. 
Sallengre, Thesaur. torn. i. p. 773. 



3 In the greater part of Switzerland, the ava- 
lanches are known by the name of lauvvine[n]. 

* These stanzas may probably remind the reader 
of Ensign Northerton's remarks: " D — n Homo," 
etc. ; but the reasons for our dislike are not exactly 
the same. I wish to express, that we become tired 
of the task before we can comprehend the beauty ; 
that we learn by rote before we can get by heart; 
that the freshness is worn away, and the future 
pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed, 
by the didactic anticipation, at an age when we can 
neither feel nor understand the power of composi- 
tions which it requires an acquaintance with life, as 
well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to reason 
upon. For the same reason, we never can be aware 
of the fulness of some of the finest passages of 
Shakspeare ("To be. or not to be," for instance), 
from the habit of having them hammered into us at 
eight years old, as an exercise, not of mind, but_ of 
memory: so that when we are old enough to enjoy 
them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled 



334 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXXVI. 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which 

turned 
My sickening memory ; and, though Time 

hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learned, 
Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have 

sought. 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health ; but wiiat it then detested, still abhor. 



LXXVI I. 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so. 
Not for thy fauits, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse ; 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art. 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce. 
Awakening without wounding the touched 
heart. 
Yet fare thee v/ell — upon Soracte's ridge we 
part. 

LXXVI 1 1, 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to 

thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires I and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come 

and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your 

way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples. 

Ye! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 



In some parts of the continent, young persons are 
taught from more common authors, and do not read 
the best classics till their maturity. I certainly do 
not speak on this point from any pique or aversion 
towards the place of my education. I was not a 
slow, though an idle boy; and I believe no one 
could, or can be, more attached to Harrow than I 
have always been, and with reason; — a part of the 
time passed there was the happiest jaf my life; and 
my preceptor, the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury, was the 
best and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose 
warnings I have remembered but too well, though 
too late, when I have erred, — and whose counsels 
I have but followed when I have done well or wisely. 
If ever this imperfect record of my feelings towards 
him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one 
who never thinks of him but with gratitude and 
veneration — of one wlin would more gladly boast 
of having been his pupil, if, by more closely follow- 
ing his injunctions he could reflect any honor upon 
bis instrugtQr, 



LXXIX. 
The Niobe of nations ! there she stands,i 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless 

woe; 
An empty urn within her withered hands, , 
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago ; j 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 2 i 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow. 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her i 
distress. ! 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, , 

and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city'sjs 

pride; ' 

She saw her glories star by star expire, |; 

And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride.'j 
Where the car climbed the capitol ; far andlj 

wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a 

site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void. ; 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, " here was, or is," where all 

doubly night ? 

LXXXI. 
The double night of ages, and of her. 
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapti 

and wrap 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample 

lap; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry " Eureka ! " it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 
Alas 1 the lofty city ! and alas ! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! 3 and the dayv 



1 [" I have been some days in Rome the Wonder- 
ful. I am delighted with Rome. As a whole — 
ancient and modern, — it beats Greece, Constanti- 
nople, every thing — at least that I have ever seen. 
But I can't describe, because my first impressions 
are always strong and confused, and my memory 
selects and reduces them to order, like distance in 
the landscape, and blends them bet'ter, although 
they may be less distinct. I have been on horse- 
back most of the day, all days since my arrival. I 
have been to Albano, its lakes, and to the top of 
the Alban Mount, and to Frescati, Aricia, etc. As 
for the Coliseum, Pantheon, St. Peter's, the Vati- 
can, Palatine, etc. etc. — they are quite inconceiv- 
able, and must be seen.'" — Byron^s Letters, May, 
1817.I 

2 For a comment on this and the two following 
stanzas, the reader may consult " Historical Illus- 
trations," p. 46. 

3 Orosius gives 320 for the number of triumphs. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



335 



When Brutus made the dagger's edge sur- 
pass 

The conqueror's sword in bearing fame 
away ! 

Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay. 

And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall 
be 

Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 

Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when 
Rome was free ! 

Lxxxiir. 
Oh thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's 

wheel, 
Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause 

to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy 

frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly 

crown — 

LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath,! — couldst thou di- 
vine 

To what would one day dwindle that which 
made 

Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 

By aught tlian Romans Rome should thus 
be laid ? 

She who was named Eternal, and arrayed 

Her warriors but to conquer — she who 
veiled 

Earth with her haughty shadow, and dis- 
played. 

Until the o'er-canopied horizon failed. 
Her rushing wings — Oh! she who was Al- 
mighty hailed! 

LXXXV. 
^ Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off senates while he hewed the 

throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 



He is followed by Panvinius; and Panvinius by 
Mr. Gibbon and the modern writers. 

* Certainly, were it not for these two traits in the 
life of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should 
regard him as a monster unredeemed by any admir- 
able quality. The atouemeni of his voluntary res- 
ignation of empire may perhaps be accepted by 
us, as it seems to have satisfied the Romans, who 
if they had not respected must have destroyed him. 
There could be no mean, no division of opinion; 
they must have all thought, like Eucrates, that 
what had appeared ambition was a love of glory, 
and that what had b«en mistaken for pride was a 
real prandeur of soul, 



What crimes it cost to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages I but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny; 
His day of double victory and death ■ 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, 
yield his breath 2 

Lxxxyi. 
The third of the same moon whose former 

course 
Had all but crowned him, on the selfsame 

day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
And showed not Fortune thus how fame and 

sway. 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous 

way. 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were 

his doom ! 

Lxxxvir. 
And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in 3 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din. 
At thy bathed base the bloody Ccesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis I did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a 

scene ? 

LXXXVIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of 

Ronie.s 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs im- 
part 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty 

heart. 
Which the great founder sucked from thy 

wild teat, 
Scorched by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. 
And thy limbs black with lightning — dost 
thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond 
charge forget ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost; — but all thy foster-babes are 

dead — 
The men of iron ; and the world hath reared 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 



- On the 3d of September Cromwell gained the 
victory of Dunbar: a year afterwards he obtained 
"his crowning mercy" of Worcester; and a few 
years after, on the same day, which he had ever e» 
teemed the most fortunate for him, died. 

3 See " Historical Notes," Nos. XXIV. X^^V- 



336 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



In imitation of the things they feared, 
And fought and conquered, and the same 

course steered, 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have. 
Nor could, the same supremacy have neared. 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave. 
But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves 
a slave — 

xc. 

The fool of fi^lse dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Ca;sar, following him of old 
With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
Was modelled in a less terrestial mould, i 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold. 
And an immortal instinct which redeemed 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with the distaff now he seemed 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he 
beamed, 

xci. 

And came — and saw — and conquered! 

But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to 

flee. 
Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory. 
With a deaf heart which never seemed to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity. 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aimed — 
At what ? can he avouch — or answer what he 

claimed, 

XCI I. 

And would be all or nothing — nor could 

wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fixed him with the Caesars in his fate, 
On whom we tread : For//z/j the conqueror 

rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have 

flowed. 
An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to refiow ! — Renew thy rainbow, 

God! 

XCIII. 

What from this barren being do we reap ? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the 

deep, 
And all things weighed in custom's falsest 

scale ; 
Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow 

pale 

' See " Historical Notes," at the end of this 
CantP, No. XXVL 



Lest their own judgments should become 
too bright. 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth 
have too much light. 



And thus they plod in sluggish misery. 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the 
same tree. 

xcv. 

I speak not of men's creeds — they rest 

between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allowed. 
Averred, and known, — and daily, hourly 

seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed. 
And the intent of tyranny avowed. 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the 

proud. 
And shook them from their slumbers on 

the throne ; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had 

done. 

XCVI. 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be. 
And freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled ? 
Or must such minds be nourished in the 

wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the 

roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has Earth no 

more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no 

such shore ? 

xcvii. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit 

crime. 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and 

clime; 
Because the deadly days which we have 

seen. 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's 

worst — his second fall, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



337 



XCVIII. 
Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but 

flying, 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the 

wind ; 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and 

dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little 

worth. 
But the sap lasts, and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring 

forth. 

XCIX. 
There is a stern round tower of other days.i 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays. 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'er- 

thrown ; — 
What was this tower of strength ? within 

its cave 
What treasure lay so locked, so hid? — A 

woman's grave. 

C. 
But who was she, the lady of the dead. 
Tombed in a palace ? Was she chaste and 

fair? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's 

bed ? . 

What race of chiefs and heroes did she 

bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was the 

heir? 
How lived — how loved — how died she? 

Was she not 
So honored — and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal 

lot? 

CI. 
Was she as those who love their lords, or 

they 
Who love the lords of others ? such have 

been 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen. 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the 

affections are. 



^ Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called 
Capo di Bove. See " Historical Illustrations," p. 
200. 



CII. 

Perchance she died in youth : it may be, 

bowed 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous 

tomb 
That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death; 

yet shed 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead. 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf- 

hke red. 

cm. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all. 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver 

gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall. 

It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud 

array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and 

eyed 
By Rome — but whither would Conjecture 

stray ? 
Thus much alone we know^ — Metella died. 
The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his 

love or pride ! 

CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known. 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on 

me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy 

groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin 

leaves behind ; 

CV. 
And from the planks, far shattered o'er the 

rocks. 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies foundered that was ever dear : 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I 

steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save 

what is here. 

CVI. 
Then let the winds howl on I their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry. 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 



338 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray 

and bright. 
And sailing pinions, — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs ? — let me not num- 
ber mine. 

CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and massed together, hillocks 

heaped 
On what were chambers, arch crushed, 

column strown 
In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos 

steeped 
In subterranean damps, where the owl 

peeped. 
Deeming it midnight: — Temples, baths, or 

halls ? 
Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning 

reaped 
From her research hath been, that these are 

walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the 

mighty falls.i 

CVII I. 
There is the moral of all human tales ; 2 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past. 



^ The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly 
on the side towards the Circ.us Maximus. The very 
soil s formed of crumbled brickwork. Nothing 
has been told, nothing can be told, to satisfy ihe be- 
lief of any but a Roman antiquar . See " Histori- 
cal Illustrations," p. 206. — [The voice of Marius 
could not sound more deep and solemn amid the 
ruined arches of Carthage than the strains of the 
pilgrim amid the broken shrines and fallen statues 
of her subduer." — Heber.'] 

- The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking f the 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and h 
contemporary Romans has the fo owing loquent 
passage: — " From their rai' eries <" this kind, o 
the barbarity and misery of our island, one cannot 
help reflecting on the surprising fate and revolutions 
of kingdoms; how Rome, once the mistress of t. 
world, the seat of arts, empire, and glory, no' lies 
sunk in sloth, ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to 
the most cruel as well as to the most contemptible 
of tyrants, superstition and religious imposture: 
while this remote country, anciently the jest and 
contempt of the polite Romans, is become the happy 
seat of liberty, plenty, and letters; flourishing in all 
the arts and refinements of civil life; yet running 
perhaps the same course which Rome itself had run 
before it, from virtuous industry to wealth; from 
wealth to luxury; from luxury to an impatience of 
discipline, and corruption of morals: till, by a total 
degeneracy and loss of virtue, being grown ripe for 
destruction, it fall a prey at la. to some hardy op- 
pressor, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every 
thing that is valuable, sinks gradually again into its 
original barbarism."* 

* See History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, 
sect. vi. vol. ii. p. i«2. 



First Freedom and then Glory — when tha' 

fails. 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at 

last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast. 
Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here, 
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away 

with words ! draw near, 

cix. 
Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — 

for here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span. 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were 

filled! 
Where are its golden roofs ! where those who 

dared to build ? 

ex. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou. 

Thou nameless column with the buried 

base! 
What are the laurels of the Caesars' brow? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's ? No — 'tis that of Time : 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept 

sublime,^ 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars: they had con- 
tained 
A spirit which with these would find a 

home. 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth 

r igned, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustained, 
But yielded back his conquests: — he was 

more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstained 
With household blood and wine, serenely 
wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name 
adore.4 



^ The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. 
Peter; that of Aureiius by St. Paul. See " Histori- 
cal Illustrations," p. 214. 

* Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roinan 
princes; and it would be easier to find a sovereign 
uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than 
one possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to 
this emperor. " When he mounted the throne," 
says the historian Dion, " he was strong in body. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 



339 



CXII. 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high 

place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where 

the steep 
Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors 

heap 
Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field 

below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents 

glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns 

with Cicero ! 

CXIII. 
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and 

blood : 
Here a proud people's passions were ex- 
haled. 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer 

failed ; 
But lonr befo-e had Freedon's face been 

veiled, 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawl ss soldi r who assailed 
Trod on the trembling _enate's slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voic^ of baser prostitutes. 

cxiv. 
Then turn we to L latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrant turn to thee, 
Redeemer f dark centuries of shame — 
The friend " Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi ! last of Romans 1 1 While the tree 
Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a 

leaf. 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's 

chief — 
Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! 

too brief. 

cxv. 
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 2 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 



Le was vigorous in mind; age had impaired none 
of his faculties; he was altogether free from envy 
and from detraction ; he honored all the good and he 
advanced them; and on this account they could 
not be the objects of his fear, or of his hate; he 
never listened to informers; he gave not yay to his 
anger; he abstained equally from unfair exactions 
and unjust punishments; he had rather be loved as 
a man than honored as a sovereign; he was affable 
with his people, respectful to the senate, and uni- 
versally beloved by both; he inspired none with 
dread but the enemies of his country." 

1 See " Historical Illustrations," p. 248. 

2 See " Historical Notes," at the end of this Can- 
to, No. XXVII. 



As thine ideal breast ; whate'-r thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholepsy of sonic fond despair; 
Or, it mi ht be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more than common votary 

there 
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth. 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly 

bodied forth. 

CXVI. 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprin- 
kled 
With thine Elysian water-drops; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un- 

wrinkled. 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margin now no more 

erase 
Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters 

sleep, 
Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, 
and ivy, creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 

Are clothed with early blossoms, through 

the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their 

class. 
Implore the pausing step, and with their 

dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes. 
Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems colored 

by its skies. 

CXVIII. 
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted 

cover, 
Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; 
The purple Midni ht veiled that mystic 

meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the 

greeting 
Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 

CXIX, 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his reply- 
ing, 

Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 

And Love, which dies as it was born, in 
sighing, 

Share with immortal transports ? could thine 
art 



340 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed 
which cloys ? 

cxx. 

Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste. 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the 

eyes. 
Flowers whose wild odors breathe but 

agonies. 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the 

plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion 

fiies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 

CXXI. 

Oh Love 1 no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled 

heaven. 
Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
And to a thought such shape and image 

given. 
As haunts the unquenched soul — parched — 

wearied — wrung — and riven. 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
And fevers into false creation : — where. 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul 

hath seized ? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we 

dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men. 
The unreached Paradise of our despair. 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen. 
And overpowers the page where it would 

bloom again ? 

CXXIII. 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but 

the cure 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the 

mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on. 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown 

winds ; 



The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when 
most undone. 

CXXIV, 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslaked 

the thirst. 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay. 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at 

first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the 

same, 
Each idle— and all ill — and none the 

worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name. 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes 

the fiame. 

cxxv. 

Few — none — find what they love or could 

have loved. 
Though accident, bhnd contact, and the 

strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long. 
Envenomed with irrevocable wrong ; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod. 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust 

we all have trod. 

CXXVI. 

Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 

The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 

This uneradicable taint of sin. 

This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 

Whose root is earth, whose leaves and 

branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men 

like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we 

see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which 

throb through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever 

new. 

CXXVII. 

■Viet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base i 

Abandonment of reason to resign 

Our right of thought — our last and only ! 

placg 
Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: 

1 "At all events," says the author of the Aca- 
demical Questions, " I trust, whatever may be the 
fate of my own speculations, that philosophy will 
regain that estimation which it ought to possess. 
The free and philosophic spirit of our nation has 
been the theme of admiration to the world. This 
was the proud distinction of Englishmen, and the' 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



341 



Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chained and tortured — cabined, cribbed, 

confined, 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should 

shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind. 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will 

couch the blind. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up all her triumphs in one 

dome. 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to 

illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies 

assume 

cxxix. 
Hues which have words, and speak to ye 

of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monu- 
ment. 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath 

bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a 

power 
And magic in the ruined battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its 

dower. 

cxxx. 
Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments 

err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift. 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of 

thee a gift : 



luminous source of all their glory. Shall we then 
forget the manly and dignified sentiments of our 
ancestors, to prate in the language of the mother or 
the nurse about our good old prejudices? This is 
not the way to defend the cause of truth. It was 
not tlius that our fathers maintained it in the bril- 
liant periods of our history. Prejudice may be 
trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of 
time, while reason slumbers in the citadel; but if 
the latter sink into a lethargy, the former will 
quickly erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, 
wisdom, and liberty support each other : he who 
will not reason is a bigot; he who cannot, is a 
fool; and he who dares not, is a §lave." 



cxxxi. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a 

shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate. 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of 

fate : — 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate. 
Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the 

hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have 

worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not 

mourn ? 

CXXXII. 

And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! i 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage 

long — 
Thou, who didst call the Furies from the 

abyss. 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — just. 
Had it but been from hands less near — in 

this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake 1 thou 

shalt, and must. 

CXXXIII. 
It is not that I rhay not have incurred 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and, had it been conferred 
With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound ; 
But now my blood shall not sink in the 

ground ; 
To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought 

and found. 

Which if / have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet 

awake. 

CXXXIV. 
And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is suffered : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse. 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse. 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my 

curse ! 

cxxxv. 
That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I 

not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth I behold it, 

Heaven ! — 



1 See "Historical Notes' 
Canto, No. XXVIII. 



at the end of this 



342 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ! 
Have I not suffered things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain seared, my heart 

riven, 
Hopes sapped, name blighted. Life's life 

lied away ? 
And only not to desperation driven. 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

cxxxvi. 
From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could 

do? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew. 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or 

sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless oblo- 

quy.i 

CXXXVII. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its 

fire, 
And my flame perish even in conquering 

pain ; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I ex- 
pire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not 

of. 
Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre. 
Shall on their softened spirits sink, and 
move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

CXXXVIII. 

The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread 

power ! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls 

rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 

' [Between stanzas cxxxv. and cxxxvi. we find in 
the original MS. the following: — 
" If to forgive be heaping coals of fire — 
As God hath spoken — on the heads of foes, 
Mine should be a volcano, and rise higher 
Than, o'er the Titans crushed, Olympus rose, 
Or Athos soars, or blazing Etna glows: — 
True they who stung were creeping things; but 

what 
Than serpents' teeth inflicts with deadlier throes? 
The Lion may be goaded by the Gnat. — 
Who sucks the slumberer's blood? — The Eagle? — 
No: the Bat."] 



That we become a part of what has been. 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

cxxxix. 
And here the buzz of eager nations ran. 
In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause. 
As man was slaughtered by his fellov/ man. 
And wherefore slaughtered ? wherefore, but 

because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore 

not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 
I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
And his drooped head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing 

slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone. 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed 
the wretch who won. 

CXLI. 
He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away : ^ 
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
lliere was their Dacian mother — he, their 

sire. 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday — 3 



2 Whether the wonderful statue which suggested 
this image be a laquearian gladiator, which, in spite 
of Winkelmann's criticism, has been stoutly main- 
tained; or whether it be a Greek herald, as that 
great antiquary positively asserted; * or whether it 
is to be thought a Spartan or barbarian shield- 
bearer, according to the opinion of his Italian 
editor; it must assuredly seem a copy of that mas- 
terpiece of Ctesilaus which represented "a wounded 
man dying, who perfectly expressed what there re- 
mained of life in him." Montfaucon and Maflei 
thought it the identical statue; but that statue was 
of bronze. The gladiator was once in the Villa 
Ludovizi, and was bought by Clement XII. The 
right arm is an entire restoration of Michael Angelo. 

3 See " Historical Notes " at the end of this Canto, 
Nos. XXIX. XXX. 



* Either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by 
CEdipus; or Cepreas, herald of Euritheus, killed 
by the Athenians when he endeavored to drag the 
Heraclidse from the altar of mercy, and in whose 
honor they instituted annual games, continued to 
the time of Hadrian; or Anthemocritus, the Athe- 
nian herald, killed by the Megarenses, who never 
recovered the impiety. See Storia delle Arti, etc. 
torn. ii. pag. 303, 204, 205, 206, 207, lib. ix. cap. ii, 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



343 



Air this rushed with his blood — Shall he 
expire 
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut 
your ire ! 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody 

steam. 
And liere, where buzzing nations choked the 

ways. 
And roared or murmured like a mountain 

stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman millions' blame or 

praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a 

crowd, 1 
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' 

faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crushed — walls 

bowed — 
A.nd galleries, where my steps seem echoes 

strangely loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have 

appeared. 
Hath it indeed been plundered, or but 

cleared ? 
Alas ! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is neared : 
It will not bear the brightness of the day. 
Which streams too much on all years, man, 

have reft away. 

CXLIV. 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops 

of time. 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland forest, which the gray walls 

wear. 
Like laurels on the bald first Coesar's hea ; '^ 
When the light shines serene but doth not 

glare. 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust 

ye tread. 



1 See " Historical Notes " at the end of this Canto, 
Nos. XXIX. XXX. 

2 Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was 
particularly gratified by that decree of the senate 
which enabled him to wear a wreath of laurel on ail 
occasions. He was anxious, not to show that he 
was the conqueror of the world, but to bide that he 
was bald. A stranger at Rome would hardly have 
guessed at the motive, nor should we without the 
help of the historian. 



CXLV. 
"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall 

stand ; 3 
" When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
"And when Rome falls — the World." 

From our own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty 

wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are 

still 
On their foundations, and unaltered all ; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill. 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, 

or what ye will. 

CXLVI. 
Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods. 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by 

time; 4 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and 

man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious 

dome ! 
Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and 

tyrant's rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome 1 

CXLVII. 
Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! 
Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are ahars for their 

beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts 

around them close. ^ 



3 This is quoted in the " Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire," as a proof that the Coliseum was 
entire, when seen by the Anglo-Saxon pilgrims at 
the end of the seventh, or the beginning of the 
eighth, century. A notice on the Coliseum may be 
seen in the " Historical Illustrations," p. 263. 

* " Though plundered of all its brass, except the 
ring which was necessary to preserve the aperture 
above; though exposed to repeated fires; though 
sometimes flooded by the river and always open to 
the rain, no monument of equal antiquity is so well 
preserved as this rotundo. It passed with little 
alteration from the Pagan into the present worship; 
and so convenient were its niches for the Christian 
altar, that Michael Angelo, ever studious of ancient 
beauty, introduced their design as a model in the 
Catholic church." — Forsyth'' s Italy, p. 137. 

■'"' The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for 
the busts of modern great, or, at least, distin- 
guished, men. The flood of light which once fell 



344 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 



CXLVIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear 

light 1 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadowed on my 

sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar : — but what doth she 

there. 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white 

and bare ? 

CXLIX. 
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young 

life, 
Where on the heart andyy(?;« the heart we 

took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled 

nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet? — I know not — 

Cain was Eve's. 

CL. 

But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift; — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No ; he shall not ex- 
pire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the 

fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream 

rises higher 
Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's 
realm holds no such tide. 



The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 

through the large orb above on the whole :i. of 
divinities, now shines on a numerous a semblage of 
mortals, some one or two of whom have been al- 
most deified by the veneration of their countrymen. 
For a notice of the Pantheon, see " Historical Illus- 
trations," p. 287. 

1 " There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 
What do I gaze on ? " etc. 
This and the three next stanzas allude to the story 
of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to the 
traveller by the site, or pretended site, of that ad- 
venture, now shown at the church of St. Nicholas 
/;/ Carcere. The difficulties attending the full be- 
lief of the tale are stated iu " Historical Illustra- 
tions," p. 295. 



A constellation of a sweeter ray. 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds: — Oh, ho- 
liest nurse! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall 

miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII. 
Turn to the Mole which Hadrian reared on 

high,-^ 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
Colossal copyist of deformity, 
Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doomed the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth. 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How 

smiles 
The gazer's eye with phitosophic mirth, 
To view the huge design which sprung from 
such a birth ! 

CLIII. 

But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous 

dome, 3 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's 

tomb ! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyasna and the jackal in their shade; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have 

surveyed 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem 

prayed ; 

CUV. 
But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in his honor piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are 

aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 

CLV. 
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; 
And why ? it is not lessened ; but thy mind. 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God fiice to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 



^ The castle of St. Angelo. 
3 The church of St. Peter's, 



CHILD K HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



345 



CLVI. 

Thou movest — but increasing with the ad- 
vance, 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still 

doth rise, 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
Vastness which grows — but grows to liar- 

monize — 
All musical in its immensities ; 
Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines 

where flame 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dome 

which vies 
In air with Earth's chief structures, though 

their frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the 

clouds must claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must 

break, 
To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will make, 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by 

heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part. 
The glory which at once upon thee did not 

dart, 

CLVIII. 

Not by its fault — but thine: Our outward 

sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our taint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the 

great 
Defies at first our Nature's littleness. 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then pause, and be enlightened; there is 

more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would 

adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought 

could plan ; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of 
man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great con- 
ceptions can. 



Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending : — 

Vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's 

grasp, 
The old man's clench ; the long envenomed 

chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on 

gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow. 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow 

bright 
With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by. 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 



But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose 

breast 
L(*iged for a deathless lover from above. 
And maddened in that vision — are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever blessed 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly 

guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood. 
Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god 1 

CLXIII. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath arrayed 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it cauglit 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with 
which 'twas wrought. 



But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song. 
The being who upheld it through the past ? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his 

last; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing: — if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed 



346 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



With forms which live and suffer — let that 
pass — 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's 
mass, 

CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and 

all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 
And spreads the dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grow phantoms ; 

and the cloud 
Between us sinks and all which ever glowed. 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allowed 
To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract 

the gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss. 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame. 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never 

more, 
Oh, happier thought I can we be made the 

same : 
It is enough in sooth that of/ce we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose 

sweat was gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark! forth from the abyss a voice pro- 
ceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound. 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound ; 
Through storm and darkness yawns the 

rendmg ground. 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head dis- 
crowned, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields 
no relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art 

thou? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still 

bled. 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy. 
Death hushed that pang for ever : with thee 

fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed 

to cloy. 



Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be. 
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep 

for thee. 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease 

to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had poured 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord. 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou 

wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment 

made; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
Futiirity to her! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed 
Our children should obey her child, and 

blessed 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose prom- 
ise seemed 
Like stars to shepherds' eyes : — 'twas but a 
meteor beamed. 

CLXXI. 

Woe unto us, not her ; 1 for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath 

rung 
Its knell in princely ears, 'till the o'erstung 
Nations have armed in madness, the strange 

fate 2 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and 

hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon 

or late, — 

CLXXII. 
These might have been her destiny ; but no. 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair. 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now 
there ! 



1 [" The death of the Princess Charlotte has 
been a shock even here (Venice), and must have 
been an earthquake at home. The fate of this poor 
girl is melancholy in every respect; dying at twenty 
or so, in childbed — of a boy too, a present princess 
and future queen, and just as she began to be 
happy, and to enjoy herself, and the hopes which 
she inspired. I feel sorry in every respect." — By- 
rail's Letters.'] 

- Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 
heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a banb 
rupt in means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



347 



How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's 

breast 
Is hnked the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's and 

opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could 

love thee best. 

CLXXIII. 

Lo, Nemi 1 1 navelled in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which 

spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as cherished hate, its surface 

wears 
A deep cold settled aspect naught can shake, 
All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the 

snake. - 

CLXXIV. 

And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprang the Epic war, 
" Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending 

star 
Rose o'er an empire: — but beneath thy 

right 
Tully reposed from Rome; — and where 

yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's 

delight.2 

CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 



and, "the greatest is behind," Napoleon lives a 
prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but super- 
fluous list might be added of names equally illus- 
trious and unhappy. 

> The village of Nemi was near the Arician re- 
treat of Egeria, and, from the shades which 
embosomed the temple of Diana, has preserved to 
this day its distinctive appellation of The Grove. 
Nemi is but an evening's ride from the comfortable 
inn of Albano. 

2 The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of 
unrivalled beauty, and from the convent on the 
highest point, which has succeeded to the temple 
of the Latian Jupiter, the prospect embraces all the 
objects alluded to in this stanza; the Mediter- 
ranean ; the whole scene of the latter half of the 
iEneid, and the coast from beyond the mouth of 
the Tiber to the headland of Circaeum and the Cape 
of Terracina. — See "Historical Notes," at the 
end of this Canto, No. XXXI. 



And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when 

we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we followed on till the dark 

Euxine rolled 

CLXXVI. 
Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
Long, though not very many, since have 

done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and 

some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 
We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
That we can yet feel gladdened by the sun, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is 

clear. 

CLXXVII. 

Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelHng-place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the' human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her! 
Ye Elements 1 — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be 
our lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all con- 
ceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — 

roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery 

plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth 

remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 

groan. 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and 

unknown. 

CLXXX. 
His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy 

fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 



348 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



And shake him from thee ; the vile strength 

he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful 

spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth: — there let 

him lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the 

walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which 
mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafal- 
gar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 

thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 

they ? 1 
Thy waters washed them power while they 

were free,'^ 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so 

thou. 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure 

brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest 

now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 

form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or 

storm. 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 



^ [" A man," said Johnson, *' who has not been 
in Italy, is always conscious of an inferiority, from 
his not having seen what it is expected a man should 
see. The grand object of all travelling is to see the 
shores of the Mediterranean. On those shores 
were the four great empires of the world; the 
Assyrian, the Persian, the Grecian, and the Ro- 
man. All our religion, almost all our law, almost 
all our arts, almost all that sets us above savages, 
has come to us from the shores of the Mediterra- 
nean." — BoswelVs -yohnsoH.^ 

2 [This line reads thus in Byron's MS. In all edi- 
tions before that of London, 1853, it was printed — 

Thy waters wasted them while they were free.] 



Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and 

sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each 
zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathom- 
less, alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean I ^ and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 

1 wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 

And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do 
here. 

CLXXXV. 

My task is done 4 — my song hath ceased 

— my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 

2 [This passage would, perhaps, be read without 
emotion, if we did not know that Lord Byron was 
here describing his actual feelings and habits, and 
that this was an unaffected picture of his propensi- 
ties and amusement even from childhood, — when 
he listened to the roar, and watched the bursts of 
the northern ocean on the tempestuous shores of 
Aberdeenshire. It was a fearful and violent change 
at the age of ten years to be separated from this 
congenial solitude, — this independence so suited 
to his haughty and contemplative spirit, — this 
rude grandeur of nature, — aad thrown among the 
mere worldly-minded and selfish ferocity, the af- 
fected polish and repelling coxcombry, of a great 
public school. How many thousand times did the 
moody, sullen, and indignant boy wish himself 
back to the keen air and boisterous billows that 
broke lonely upon the simple and sonl-invigorating 
haunts of his childhood. How did he prefer some 
ghost-story; some tale of second-sight; some rela- 
tion of Robin Hood's feats ; some harrowing narra- 
tive of buccaneer-exploits, to all of Horace, and 
Virgil, and Homer, that was dinned into his repul- 
sive spirit! To the shock of this change is, I sus- 
pect, to be traced much of the eccentricity of Lord 
Byron's future life. This fourth Canto is the fruit 
of a mind which had stored itself with great care 
and toil, and had digested with profound reflection 
and intense vigor what it had learned: the senti- 
ments are not such as lie on the surface, but could 
only be awakened by long meditation. Whoever 
reads it, and is not impressed with the many grand 
virtues as well as gigantic powers of the mind that 
wrote it, seems to me to afford a proof both of in- 
sensibility of heart, and great stupidity of intellect." 
— Sir E. Brydges. ] 

< [It was a thought worthy of the great spirit of 
Byron, after exhibiting to us his Pilgrim amidst all 
the most striking scenes of earthly grandeur and 
earthly decay, — after teaching us, like him, to 
sicken over the mutability, and vanity, and empti- 
ness of human greatness, to conduct him and us at 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH 



349 



The spell should break of this protracted 
dream, 

last to the borders of " the Great Deep." It is there 
that we may perceive an image of the awful and un- 
changeable abyss of eternity, into whose bosom so 
much has sunk, and all shall one day sink, — of that 
eternity wherein the scorn and thecontempt of man, 
and the melancholy of great, and the fretting of 
little minds, shall be at rest for ever. No one, but 
a true poet of man and of nature, would have dared 
to frame such a termination for such a Pilgrimage. 
The image of the wanderer may well be associated, 
for a time, with the rock of Calpe, the shattered 
temples of Athens, or the gigantic fragments of 
Rome; but when we wish to think of this dark per- 
sonification as of a thing which is, where can we so 
well imagine him to have his daily haunt as by the 
roaring of the waves? It was thiis that Hnmer 
represented Achilles in his moments of ungovern- 
able and inconsolable grief for the loss of Patroclus. 
It was thus he chose to depict the paternal despair 
of Chriseus — 

" Bvj 6' O-KiOiV TTOLpa ^IVa 7T0\v<f>\0l<T^OL0 9aX.d<T(Tr)^." 

— Professor Wilson^ 



The torch shall be extinguished which hath 

lit 
My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is 

writ, — 
Would it were woi-thier! but I am not now 
That wliich I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, 

and low. 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath 

been — 
A sound which makes us linger; — yet — 

farewell I 
Ye 1 who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain. 
If such there were — with you, the moral of 

his strain ! 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH. 



I. STATE DUNGEONS OF VENICE. 

*' I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prisofi on each hand. ' 

Stanza i. lines i and 2. 

The communication between the ducal palace 
and the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or 
covered gallery, high above the water, and divided 
by a stone wall into a passage and a cell. The 
State dungeons, called " pozzi," or wells, were 
sunk in the thick walls of the palace; and the pris- 
oner when taken out to die was conducted across 
the gallerj' to the other side, and being then led 
back into the other compartment, or cell, upon 
the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal 
through which the criminal was taken into this cell 
is now walled up; but the passage is still open, and 
is still known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. 
The pozzi are under the flooring of the chamber at 
the foot of the bridge. They were formerly twelve, 
but on the first arrival of the French, the Venetians 
hastily blocked or broke up the deeper of these 
dungeons. You may still, however, descend by a 
trap-door, and crawl down through holes, half- 
choked by rubbish, to the depth of two stories 
below the first range. If you are in want of conso- 
lation for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps 
you may find it there; scarcely a ray of light glim- 
mers into the narrow gallery which leads to the 
cells, and the places of confinement themselves are 
totally dark. A small hole in the wall admitted the 
damp air of the passages, and served for the intro- 
duction of the prisoner's food. A wooden pallet 
raised a foot from the ground, was the only furni- 



ture. The conductors tell you that a light was not 
allowed. The cells are about five paces in length, 
two and a half in width, and seven feet in height. 
They are directly beneath one another, and respira- 
tion is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only 
one prisoner was found when the republicans de- 
scended into these hideous recesses, and he is said 
to have been confined sixteen years. But the in- 
mates of the dungeons beneath had left traces of 
their repentance, or of their despair, which are still 
visible, and may, perhaps, owe something to recent 
ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to have 
offended against, and others to have belonged to, 
the sacred body, not only from their signatures, but 
from the churches and belfries which they have 
scratched upon the walls. The reader may not ob- 
ject to see a specimen of the records prompted by 
so terrific a solitude. As nearly as they could be 
copied by more than one pencil, three of them are 
as follows : — 

1. NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUN'O PENSA 6 TACI 
SE FUGIR VUOI DE SHIONl INSIDIE e LACCI 
IL PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 

MA BEN DI VALOR TUG LA VERA PROVA 

1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI RE- 
TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 

lACOMO . GRITTI . SCRISSE. 

2. UN PARLAR POCHO et 
NEGARE PRONTO et 

UN PENSA R A L FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 
A NOI ALTRI MESCHINl 

1605. 
EGO lOHN BAPTISTE AD 

ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 



.50 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



3. DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMl DIO 

DE CHI NON Ml FIDO MI GUAKDARO lO 
A TA H A NA 

V . LA S . C .K . R . 

The copyist has followed, not corrected, the sole- 
cisms; some of which are, however, not quite so 
decided, since the letters were evidently scratched 
in the dark. It only need be observed, that bestem- 
mia and mangiar may be read in the first inscrip- 
tion, which was probably written by a prisoner con- 
fined for some act of impiety committed at a fune- 
ral; that Cortellarius is the name of a parish on 
terra firma, near the sea; and that the last initials 
evidently are put for Viva la santa Chiesa Katto- 
lica Romana. 



II. SONGS OF THE GONDOLIERS. 

" In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more." 
Stanza Hi. line i. 

The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alter- 
nate stanzas from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with 
the independence of Venice. Editions of the poem, 
with the original in one column, and the Venetian 
variations on the other, as sung by the boatmen, 
were once common, and are still to be found. The 
following extract will serve to show the difference 
between the Tuscan epic and the " Canta alia Bar- 
carola." 



Canto r arme pietose, e '1 capitano 
Che '1 gran Sepolcro liberb di Cristo. 

Molto egli opr6 col senno, o con la mano; 
Molto soffri nel glorioso acquisto; 

E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, o in vano 
S' armo d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto 

Che il Ciel gli die favore, e sotto ai santi 

Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 
E de Goffredo la immortal braura, 

Che al fin 1' ha libera co strassia, e dogia 
Del nostro buon Gesii la Sepoltura. 

De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 
Missier Pluton non 1' ha bu mai paura: 

Dio r ha agiuta, e i compagni sparpagnai 

Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 



Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up 
and continue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Childe 
Harold, and another Englishman, the writer of this 
notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of 
whom was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. 
The former placed himself at the prow, the latter at 
the stern of the boat. A little after leaving the quay 
of the Piazzetta, they began to sing, and continued 
their exercise until we arrived at the island. They 
gave us, amongst other essays, the death of Clo- 
rinda, and the palace of Armida; and did not sing 
the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. The carpen- 
ter, however, who was the cleverer of the two, and 
was frequently obliged to prompt his companion, 
told us that he could translate the original. He 



added, that he could sing almost three hundred 
stanzas, but had not spirits {tnorbin was the word 
he used) to learn any more, or to sing what he al- 
ready knew: a man must have idle time on his 
hands to acquire, or to rejjeat, and, said the poor 
fellow, " look at my clothes and at inc ; I am starv- 
ing." This speech was more affecting than his 
performance, which habit alone can make attractive. 
The recitative was shrill, screaming, and monoto- 
nous; and the gondolier behind assisted his voice 
by holding his hand to one side of his mouth. The 
carpenter used a quiet action, which he evidently 
endeavored to restrain; but was too much interested 
in his subject altogether to repress. From these 
men we learnt that singing is not confined to the gon- 
doliers, and that, although the chant is seldom, if 
ever, voluntary, there are still several amongst the 
lower classes who are acquainted with a few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the per- 
formers to row and sing at the same time. Al- 
though the verses of the Jerusalem are no longer 
casually heard, there is yet much music upon 
the Venetian canals; and upon hnlydays, those 
strangers who are not near or informed enough to 
distinguish the words, may fancy that many of the 
gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. 
The writer of some remarks which appeared in the 
"Curiosities of Literature" must excuse his being 
twice quoted; for, with the exception of some 
phrases a little too ambitious and extravagant, he 
has furnished a very exact, as well as agreeable, 
description : — 

" In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long 
passages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant 
them with a peculiar melody. But this talent 
seems at present on the decline: — at least, after 
taking some pains, I could find no more than two 
persons who delivered to me in this way a passage 
from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr. Barry 
once chanted to me a passage in Tasso in the 
manner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. 

" There are always two concerned, who alter- 
nately sing the strophes. We know the melody 
eventually by Rousseau, to whosesong^. it is printed; 
it has properly no melodious movement, and is a 
sort of medium between the canto fermo and the 
canto figurato; it approaches to the former by 
recitativical declamation, and to the latter by pas- 
sages and course, by which one syllable is detained 
and embellished. 

" I entered a gondola by moonlight; one singer 
placed himself forwards and the other aft, and thus 
proceeded to St. Georgio. One began the song: 
when he had ended his strophe, the other took up 
the lay, and so continued the song alternately. 
Throughout the whole of it, the. same notes invari- 
ably returned, but, according to the subject-matter 
of the strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller 
stress, sometimes on one, and sometimes on another 
note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the 
whole strophe as the object of the poem altered. 

" On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse 
and screaming: they seemed, in the manner of all 
rude uncivilized men, to make the excellency of 
their singing in the force of their voice: one seemed 
desirous of conquering the other by the strength of 
his lungs; and so far from receiving delight from 
this scene (shut up as I was in the box of the gon- 
dola), I found myself in a very unpleasant situa- 
tion. 

" My companion, to whom I cQmmunicated this 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH 



151 



circumstance, being very desirous to keep up the 
credit of his couritrynaen, assuieil me that this sing- 
ing was very delightful when heard at a distance. 
Accordingly we got out upon the shore, leaving one 
of the singers in the gondola, while the other went 
to the distance of some hundred paces. They now 
began to sing against one another, and I kept walk- 
ing up and down between them both, so as always 
to leave him who was to begin his part. I fre- 
quently stood still and hearkened to the one and to 
the other. 

" Here the scene was properly introduced. The 
strong declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking 
sound, met the ear from far, and called forth the 
attention; the quickly succeeding transitions, which 
necessarily required to be sung in a lower tone, 
seemed like plaintive strains succeeding the vocifer- 
ations of emotion or of pain. The other, who lis- 
tened attentively, immediately began where the 
former left off, answering him in milder or more 
vehement notes, according as the purport of the 
strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty 
buildings, the splendor of the moon, the deep 
shadows of the few gondolas that moved like spirits 
hither and thither, increased the striking peculiarity 
of the scene; and, amidst all these circumstances, 
it was easy to confess the character of this wonder- 
ful harmony. 

" It suits perfectly well with an idle, solitaiy 
mariner, lying at length in his vessel at rest on one 
of these canals, waiting for his company, or for a 
fare, the tiresomeness of which situation is some- 
what alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he 
has in memory. He often raises his voice as loud 
as he can, which extends itself to a vast distance 
over the tranquil mirror, and as all is still around, 
he is, as it were, in a solitude in the midst of a 
large and populous town. Here is no rattling of 
carriages, no noise of foot-passengers; a silent 
gondola glides now and then by him, of which 
the splashings of the oars are scarcely to be 
heard. 

" At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly 
unknown to him. Melody and verse immediately 
attach the two strangers; he becomes the respon- 
sive echo to the former, and exerts himself to be 
heard as he had heard the other. By a tacit con- 
vention they alternate verse for verse : though the 
song should last the whole night through, they 
entertain themselves without fatigue: the hearers, 
who are passing between the two, take part in the 
amusement. 

" This vocal performance sounds best at a great 
distance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it 
only fulfils its design in the sentiment of remote- 
ness. It is plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, 
and at times it is scarcely possible to refrain from 
tears. My companion, who otherwise was not a 
very delicately organized person, said quite unex- 
pectedly: E singolare come quel canto intenerisce, 
e molto piu quando lo cantano meglio. 

" I was told that the women of Libo, the long 
row of islands that divides the Adriatic from the 
Lagoons,^ particularly the women of the extreme 
districts of Malamocco and Pelestrina, sing in like 
manner the works of Tasso to these and similar 
tunes. 

" They have the custom, when their husbands 



are fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the 
evenings and vociferate these songs, and continue 
to do so with great violence, till each of them can 
distinguish the responses of her own husband at a 
distance." '^ 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all 
classes of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons 
of Italy. The city itself can occasionally furnish 
respectable audiences for two and even three opera 
houses at a time; and there are few events in 
private life that do not call forth a printed and cir- 
culated sonnet. Does a physician or a lawyer take 
his degree, or a clergyman preach his maiden ser- 
mon, has a surgeon performed an operation, would 
a harlequin announce his departure or his benefit, 
are you to be congratulated on a marriage, or a 
birth, or a lawsuit, the Muses are invoked to fur- 
nish the same number of syllables, and the indi- 
vidual triumphs blaze abroad in virgin white or 
party-colored placards on half the corners of the 
capital. The last curtsy of a favorite " prima 
donna" brings down a shower of these poetical 
tributes from those upper regions, from which, in 
our theatres, nothing but cupids and snow-storms 
are accustomed to descend. There is a poetry in 
the very life of a Venetian, which, in its common 
course, is varied with those surprises and changes 
so recommendable in fiction, but so different from 
the sober monotony of northern existence; amuse- 
ments are raised into duties, duties are softened into 
amusements, and every object being considered as 
equally making a part of the business of life, is 
announced and performed with the same earnest 
indifference and gay assiduity. The Venetian ga- 
zette constantly closes its columns with the follow- 
ing triple advertisement : — 

Charade. 



Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the 
church of St. . 



Theatres. 

St. Moses, opera. 

St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 

St. Luke, repose. 

When it is recollected what the Catholics believe 
their consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think 
it worthy of a more respectable niche than between 
poetry and the play-house. 



III. 



THE LION AND HORSES OF ST. 
MARK'S. 



" St. Mark yet sees his lion %vhere he stood 
Stand," Stanza xi. line 5. 

The Lion has lost nothing by his journey to the 
Invalides but the gospel which supported the paw 
that is now on a level with the other foot. The 
Horses also are returned to the ill-chosen spot 
whence they set out, and are, as before, half hidden 



1 The writer meant Lido, which is not a long ^ Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii. p. 156, edit, 
row of islands, but a long island : Izttus, the shoro. 1807 ; and Appendix xxix. to. Black's Life of Tasso. 



352 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



under the porch window of St. Mark's church. 
Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been 
satisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts 
of Erizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count 
Leopold Cicognara, would have given them a 
Roman extr.iction, and a pedigree not more ancient 
than the reign of Nero. But M. de .Schlegcl stepped 
in to teach the Venetians the value of their own 
treasures, and a Greek vindicated, at last and for- 
ever, the pretension of his countrymen to this noble 
production.^ M. Mustoxidi has not been left with- 
out a reply; but, as yet, he has received no answer. 
It should seem that the horses are irrevocably Chi n, 
and were transferred to Constantinople by Theodo- 
sius. Lapidary writing is a favorite play of the 
Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than 
one of their literary characters. One of the best 
specimens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable 
volume of inscriptions, all written by his friend 
Pacciaudi. Several were prepared for the recovered 
horses. It is to be hoped the best was not selected, 
when the following words were ranged in gold let- 
ters above the cathedral porch: — 

QUATUOR • EQUORUM ' SIGNA ' A * VENETIS ' BY- 
ZANTIO ■ CAPTA ' AD * TEMP " D " MAR ' A * R * S " 
MCCIV • POSITA • QU.E " HOSTILIS ' CUPIDITAS ' A " 
MDCCniC ■ ABSTULERAT ' FRANC ' I " IMP * PACIS * 
ORBI ■ DAT^ • TROPH.EUM ' A ' MDCCCXV " VICTOR ' 
REDUX IT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be 
permitted to observe, that the injustice of the Vene- 
tians in transporting the horses from Constantinople 
was at least equal to that of the French in carrying 
them to Paris, and that it would have been more 
prudent to have avoided all allusions to either rob- 
bery. An apostolic prince should, perhaps, have 
objected to affixing over the principal entrance of a 
metropolitan church an inscription having a refer- 
ence to any other triumphs than those of religion. 
Nothing less than the pacification of the world can 
excuse such a solecism. 



IV. 



SUBMISSION OF BARBAROSSA TO 
POPE ALEXANDER III. 



" The Stiabian sued, and nozv the Austrian 
reigns — 
Aft Emperor tramples where an Emperor 
*"^^^' Stanza xii. lines i and 2. 

After many vain efforts on the^part of the Italians 
entirely to throwoff the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, 
and as fruitless attempts of the Emperor to make 
himself absolute master throughout the whole of his 
Cisalpine dominions, the bloody struggles of four 
and twenty years were happily brought to a close in 
the city of Venice. The articles of atreaty had been 
previously agreed upon between Pope Alexander 
III. and Barbarossa; and the former having re- 
ceived a safe-conduct, had already arrived at Venice 
from Ferrara, in company with the ambassadors of 
the King of Sicily and the consuls of the Lombard 



1 Su i quattro cavalli della Basilica di S. Marco 
in Venezia. Lettera di Andrea Mustoxidi Corcirese. 
Padua, per Bettoni e compag. . . . 1816. 



league. There still remained, however, many points 
to adjust, and for several days the peace was be- 
lieved to be impracticable. At this juncture it was 
suddenly reported that the Emperor had arrived at 
Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the capital. The 
Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted upon 
immediately conducting him to the city. The Lom- 
bards took the alarm, and departed towards Treviso. 
The Pope himself was apprehensive of some disaster 
if Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, but 
was reassured by the prudence and address of Se- 
bastian Ziani, the Doge. Several embassies passed 
between Chioza and the capital, until, at last, the 
Emperor, relaxing somewhat of his pretensions, 
" laid aside his leonine ferocity, and put on the mild- 
ness of the lamb." ^ 

On Saturday, the 23d of July, in the year 1177, 
six Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great 
pomp, from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile 
from Venice. Early the next morning the Pope, 
accompanied by the Sicilian ambassadors, and by 
the envoys of Lombardy, whom he had recalled 
from the main land, together with a great concourse 
of people, repaired from the patriarchal palace to 
St. Mark's church, and solemnly absolved the Em- 
peror and his partisans from the excommunication 
pronounced against him. The Chancellor of the 
Empire, on the part of his master, renounced the 
anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. Imme- 
diately the Doge, with a great suite both of the 
clergy and laity, got on board the galleys, and wait- 
ing on Frederic, rowed him in mighty state from the 
Lido to the capital. The Emperor descended from 
the galley at the quay of the Piazzetta. The Doge, 
the patriarch, his bishops and clergy, and the people 
of Venice with their crosses and their standards, 
marched in solemn procession before him to the 
Church of St. Mark. Alexander was seated before 
the vestibule of the basilica, attended by his bishops 
and cardinals, by the patriarch of Aquileja, by the 
archbishops and bishops of Lombardy, all of them 
in state, and clothed in their church robes. Frederic 
approached — " moved by the Holy Spirit, venerat- 
ing the Almighty in the person of Alexander, laying 
aside his imperial dignity, and throwing off his man- 
tle, he prostrated himself at full length at the feet of 
the Pope. Alexander, with tears in his eyes, raised 
him benignantly from the ground, kissed him, blessed 
him; and immediately the Germans of the train 
sang, with a loud voice, ' We praise thee, O Lord.' 
The Emperor then taking the Pope by the right 
hand, led him to the church, and having received 
his benediction, returned to the ducal palace."-* The 
ceremony of humiliation was repeated the next day. 
The Pope himself, at the request of Frederic, said 
mass at St. Mark's. The Emperor again laid aside 
his imperial mantle, and taking a wand in his hand, 
officiated as verger, driving the laity from the 
choir, and preceding the pontiff to the altar. Alex- 
ander, after reciting the gospel, preached to the 
people. The Emperor put himself close to the 
pulpit in the attitude of listening; and the pontiff, 
touched by this mark of his attention (for he knew 



2 " Quibus auditis, imperator, operante eo, qui 
corda principum sicut vult et quando vult humiliter 
inclinat, leonina fcritate deposita, ovinam mansuetu- 
dinem induit." — Romualdi Salernitani Chronicon, 
apud Script. Rer. Ital. tom. vii. \>. 229. 

3 Romualdi Salernitani Chronicon, apud Script. 
Rer. Ital. tom. vii. p, 231. 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH. 



353 



that Frederic did not understand a word he said), 
commanded the patriarch of Aquileja to translate 
the Latin discourse into the German tongue. The 
creed was then chanted. Frederic made his obla- 
tion, and kissed the Pope's feet, and, mass being 
over, ed him by the hand to his white horse. He 
held the stirrup, and would have led the horse's 
rein to the water side, had not the Pope accepted of 
the inclination for the performance, and affection- 
ately dismissed him with his benediction. Such is 
the substance of the account left by the archbishop 
of Salerno, who was present at the ceremony, and 
whose story is confirmed by every subsequent nar- 
ration. It would not be worth so minute a record, 
were it not the triumph of liberty as well as of su- 
perstition. The states of Lombardy owed to it the 
confirmation of their privileges; and Alexander 
had reason to thank the Almighty, who had enabled 
an infirm, unarmed old man to subdue a terrible 
and potent sovereign.^ 



V. HENRY DANDOLO. 

" Ohy for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantiuni" s conquer- 
ing foe r Stanza xii. lines 8 and 9. 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the 
Highlander, 6>Ay"or tfw^ hour of Dundee ! Henry 
Dandolo, when elected Doge, m 1192, was eighty- 
five years of age. When he commanded the Vene- 
tians at the taking of Constantinople, he was conse- 
quently ninety-seven years old. At this age he 
annexed the fourth and a half of the whole empire 
of Romania,- for so the Roman empire was then 
called, to the title and to the territorial of the Ven- 
etian IDoge. The three eighths of this empire were 
preserved in the diplomas Uxitil the dukedom of 
Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the above des- 
ignation in the year 1357.^ 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in per- 
son: two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were 



1 See the above-cited Romuald of Salerno. In a 
second sermon which Alexander preached, on the 
first day of August, before the Emperor, he com- 
pared Frederic to the prodigal son, and himself to 
the forgiving father. 

2 Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important ce, and 
has written Romani instead of Romanise. Decline 
and Fall, chap. Ixi. note 8. But the title acquired 
by Dandolo runs thus in the chronicle of his name- 
sake, the Doge Andrew Dandolo. " Ducali titulo 
addrdit, ' Quartse partis et dimidise totius imperii 
Romanise.'" And. Dand. Chronicon, cap. iii. pars 
xxxvii. ap. Script. Rer. Ital. tom. xii. page 331. 
And the Romanise is observed in the subsequent 
acts of the Doge's. Indeed, the continental pos- 
sessions of the Greek empire in Europe were then 
generally known by the name of Romania, and that 
appellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey as 
applied to Thrace. 

f See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, 
ibid, page 498. Mr. Gibbon appears not to include 
Dolfino, following Sanudo, who says, " il qual titolo 
si us6 fin al Doge Giovanni Dolfino." See Vite de' 
Duchi di Venezia, ap. Script. Rer. Ttal. tom. xxii. 
530, 641. 



tied together, and a drawbridge or ladder let down 
from their higlier yards to the walls. The Doge 
was one of the first to rush into the city. Then 
was completed, said the Venetians, the prophecy of 
the Erythraean sibyl: — "A gathering together of 
the powerful shall be made amidst the waves of the 
Adriatic, under a blind leader; they sliall beset 
the goat — they shall profane Byzantium — they 
shall blacken her buildings — her spoils shall be 
dispersed; a new goat shall bleat until they have 
measured out and run over fifty-four feet, nine 
inches, and a half."* 

Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, 
having reigned thirteen years, six months, and five 
days, and was buried in the church of St. Sophia, 
at Constantinople. Strangely enough it must sound, 
that the name of the rebel apothecary who received 
the Doge's sword, and annihilated the ancient gov- 
ernment, in 1796-7, was Dandolo. 



VI. THE WAR OF CHIOZA. 

" But is not Doria's menace come to pass; 
Are they not bridled? " 

Stanza xiii. lines 3 and 4. 

After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the tak- 
ing of Chioza on the i6th of August, 1379, by the 
united armament of the Genoese and Francesco da 
Carrara, Signor of Padua, the Venetians were re- 
duced to the utmost despair. An embassy was 
sent to the conquerors with a blank sheet of paper, 
praying them to prescribe what terms they pleased, 
and leave to Venice only her independence. The 
prince of Padua was inclined to listen to these pro- 
posals, but the Genoese, who, after the victory at 
Pola, had shouted, "To Venice, to Venice, and 
long live St. George! " determined to annihilate 
their rival; and Peter Doria, their commander-in- 
chief, returned this answer to the suppliants: " On 
God's faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no 
peace from the Signor of Padua, nor from our com- 
mune of Genoa, until we have first put a rein upon 
those unbridled horses of yours, that are upon the 
porch of your evangelist St. Mark. When we have 
bridled them, we shall keep you quiet. And this 
is the pleasure of us and of our coaimune. As for 
these my brothers of Genoa, that you have brought 
with you to give up to us, I will not have them: 
take them back; for, in a few days hence, I shall 
come and let them out of prison myself, both these 
and all the others." In fact, the Genoese did ad- 
vance as far as Malamocco, within five miles of the 
capital; but their own danger and the pride of their 
enemies gave courage to the Venetians, who made 
prodigious efforts and many individual sacrifices, 
all of them carefully recorded by their historians. 
Vettor Pisani was put at the head of thirty-four 
galleys. The Genoese broke up from Malamocco, 
and retired to Chioza in October; but they again 
threatened Venice, which was reduced to extremi- 



* " Fiet potentium in aquis Adriaticis congrega- 
tio, caco praeduce Hircum ambigent, Byznntiimr 
profanabunt, sedificia denigrabunt; spolia disper- 
gentur, Hircus novus balabit usque dum i.iv pedes 
et ix pollices,et semis prsemen^urati discurrant." — 
Clironicon, Ibid, pars xxxiv. 



354 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



ties. At this time, the first of January, 1380, arrived 
Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising on the Genoese 
coast with fourteen galleys. The Venetians were 
now strong enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria 
was killed on the 22d of January by a stone bullet 
195 pounds weight, discharged from a bombard 
called the Trevisan. Chioza was then closely in- 
vested : 5,000 auxiliaries, amongst whom were some 
English condottieri, commanded by one Captain 
Ceccho, joined the Venetians. The Genoese, in 
their turn, prayed for conditions, but none were 
granted, until, at last, they surrendered at discre- 
tion; and, on the 24th of June, 1380, the Doge 
Contarini made his triumphal entry into Chioza. 
Four thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, many 
smaller vessels and barks, with all the ammunition 
and arms, and outfit of the expedition, fell into the 
hands of the conquerors, who, had it not been for 
the inexorable answer of Doria, would have gladly 
reduced their dominion to the city of Venice. An 
account of these transactions is found in a work 
called the War of Chioza, written by Daniel Chi- 
nazzo, who was in Venice at the time.^ 



VII. VENICE UNDER THE GOVERN- 
MENT OF AUSTRIA. 

" Thin streets, andforeigii aspects, stick as must 
Too oft retnind her who and zuhat enthralls.'^ 
Stanza xv. lines 7 and 8. 

The population of Venice at the end of the seven- 
teenth century amounted to nearly two hundred 
thousand souls. At the last census, taken two 
years ago, it was no more than about one hundred 
and three thousand; and it diminishes daily. The 
commerce and the official employments, which 
were to be the unexhausted source of Venetian 
grandeur, have both expired.- Most of the patri- 
cian mansions are deserted, and would gradually 
disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the 
demolition of seventy-two, during the last two 
years, expressly forbidden this sad resource of 
poverty. Many remnants of the Venetian nobility 
are now scattered, and confounded with the wealth- 
ier Jews upon the banks of the Brenta, whose 
Palladian palaces have sunk, or are sinking, in the 
general decay. Of the " gentiluomo Veneto," the 
name is still known, and that is all. He is but the 
shadow of his former self, but he is polite and kind. 
It surely may be pardoned to him if he is querulous. 
Whatever may have been the vices of the republic, 
and although the natural term of its existence may 
be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due 
course of mortality, only one sentiment can be ex- 
pected from the Venetians themselves. At no time 
were the subjects of the republic so unanimous in 
their resolution to rally round the standard of St. 
Mark, as when it was for the last time unfurled; 

1 " Chronica della Guerra di Chioza," etc. Script. 
Rer. Italic, tom. xv. p. 699 to 804. 

2 " Nonnullorum e nobilitate immensae sunt opes, 
adeo ut vix aestimari possint : id quod tribus e 
rebus oritur, parsimonia, commercio, atque iis 
emolumentis, quae e repub. percipiunt, quae banc 
ob causam diuturna fore creditur." See De Princi- 
palibiis Italiae, Tractatus, edit. 1631. 



and the cowardice and the treachery of t«« few 
patricians who recommended the fatal neutrality 
were confined to the persons of the traitors them- 
selves. The present race cannot be thought to re- 
gret the loss of their aristocratical forms, and too 
despotic government; they think only on their 
vanished independence. They pine away at the 
remembrance, and on this subject suspend for a 
moment their gay good humor. Venice may be 
said, in the words of the Scripture, " to die daily; " 
and so general and so apparent is the decline, as to 
become painful to a stranger, not reconciled to the 
sight of a whole nation expiring as it were before 
his eyes. So artificial a creation, having lost that 
principle which called it into life and supported its 
existence, must fall to pieces at once, and sink 
more rapidly than it rose. The abhorrence of 
slavery v/hich drove the Venetians to the sea, has, 
since their disaster, forced them to the land, wher< 
they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowtk 
of dependents, and not present the hinniliating 
spectacle of a whole nation loaded with recent 
chains. Their liveliness, their affability, and tha^ 
happy indifference which constitution alone can 
give (for philosophy aspires to it in vain), have not 
sunk under circumstances; but many peculiarities 
of costume and manner have by degrees been lost, 
and the nobles, with a pride common to all Italians 
who have been masters, have not been persuaded 
to parade their insignificance. That splendor which 
was a proof and a portion of their power, they 
would not degrade into the trappings of their sub- 
jection. They retired from the space which they 
iiad occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens; 
their continuance in which would have been a 
symptom of acquiescence, and an insult to those 
who suffered by the common misfortune. Those 
who remained in the degraded capital might be 
said rather to haunt the scenes of their departed 
power, than to live in them. The reflection, " who 
and what enthralls," will hardly bear a comment 
from one who is, nationally, the friend and the ally 
of the conqueror. It may, however, be allowed to 
say thus much, that to those who wish to recover 
their independence, any masters must be an object 
of detestation ; and it may be safely foretold that 
this unprofitable aversion will not have been cor- 
rected before Venice shall have sunk into the slime 
of her choked canals. 



VIII. LAURA. 

" Watering the tree 7vhich bears his lady's name 
With his melodiotis tears, he gave himself to 
J^'f^t^- Stanza xxx. lines 8 and 9. 

Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, 
we now know as little of Laura as ever.-* The dis- 
coveries of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his 



2 See An Historical and Critical Essay on the 
Life and Character of Petrarch ; and a Dissertation 
on an Historical Hypothesis of the Abbe de Sade: 
the first appeared about the year 1784; the other is 
inserted in the fourth volume of the Transactions 
of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and both have 
been incorporated into a work, published, under the 
first title, by Ballantyne, in 1810. 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH. 



355 



sneers, can no longer instruct or amuse. ^ We must 
not, however, think that these memoirs are as much 
a romance as Belisarius or the Incas, although we 
are told so by Dr. Beattie, a great name, but a little 
authority.^ His "labor" has not been in vain, 
notwithstanding his "love" has, like most other 
passions, made him ridiculous.^ The hypothesis 
which overpowered the struggling Italians, and 
carried along less interested critics in its current, is 
run out. We have another proof that we can be 
never sure that the paradox, the most singular, and 
therefore having the most agreeable and authentic 
air. will not give place to the reestablished ancient 
prejudice. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, 
died, and was buried not in Avignon, but in the 
couutry. The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets 
of Cabrieres, may resume their pretensions, and the 
exploded de la Bastie again be heard with compla- 
cency. The hypothesis of the Abb^ had no stronger 
props than the parchment sonnet and medal found 
on the skeleton of the wife of Hu2;o de Sade, and 
the manuscript note to the Virgil of Petrarch, now 
in the Ambrosian library. If these proofs were 
both incontestable, the poetry was written, the 
medal composed, cast, and deposited within the 
space of twelve hours: and these deliberate duties 
were performed round the carcass of one who died 
of the plagLie, and was hurried to the grave on the 
day of her deaih. These documents, therefore, are 
too decisive: they prove not the fact, but the forg- 
ery. Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must 
be a falsification. The Abbe cites both as incon- 
testably true; the consequent deduction is inevi- 
table — they are both evidently false.* 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a 
haughty virgin rather than that tender and pru- 
dent wife who honored Avignon by making that 
town the theatre of an honest French passion, and 
played off for one and twenty years her little ma- 
chinery of alternate favors and refusals-'' upon the 
first poet of the age. It was, indeed, rather too 
unfair that a female should be made responsible for 
eleven children upon the faith of a misinterpreted 
abbreviation, and the decision of a librarian.^ It is, 



1 Memoires pour la Vie de Petrarque. 

2 Life of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, vol. ii. p. io6. 
■* Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs "a labor of 

love" (see Decline and Fall, chap. Ixx. note i), 
and followed him with confidence and delight. The 
conipiler of a very voluminous work must take much, 
criticisni upon trust. Mr. Gibbon has done so, 
though not as readily as some other authors. 

* The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions 
of Mr. Horace Walpole. See his letter to Warton 
in 1763. 

"' " Par ce petit manege, cette alternative de 
faveurs et de rigueurs bien menagee, une femme 
tendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt et un ans, le 
plus grand poele de son siecle, sans faire la moindre 
breche a son honneur." Mem. pour la Vie de 
Petrarque, Preface aux Francois. The Italian 
editor of the London edition of Petrarch, who has 
translated Lord Woodhouselee. renders the " femme 
tenure et sage," " raffinata civetta." Riflessioni 
intomo a Madonna Laura, p. 234, vol. iii. ed. 181 1. 

" In a dialogue with St. Augustin, Petrarch has 
described Laura as having a body exhausted with 
repeated ptubs. The old editors read and printed 



however, satisfactory to think that the love ol 
' Petrarch was not platonic. The happiness which 
' he prayed to possess but once and lor a moment 
was surely not of the mind,' and something so very 
J real as a marriage project, with one wlio has been 
j idly called a shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, 
, detected in at least six places of his own sonnets.^ 
j The love of Petrarch was neither platonic nor poet- 
ical: and if in one passage of his works he calls it 
" amore veementeissimo ma unico ed onesto," he 
confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it was guilty 
and perverse, that it absorbed him quite, and mas- 
tered his heart. '•' 

In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed 
for the culpability of his wishes; for the Abbe de 
Sade himself, who certainly would not have been 
scrupulously delicate if he could have proved his 
descent from Petrarch as well as Laura, is forced in- 
to a stout defence of his virtuous grandmother Ar 
far as relates to the poet, we have no security for 
the innocence, except perhaps in the constancy 01. 
his pursuit. He assures us in his epistle to poster 
ity, that, when arrived at his fortieth year, he not 
only had in horror, but had lost all recollection an<i 
image of any " irregularity." 'O But the birth o'" 
his natural daughter cannot be assigned earlier than 
his thirty-ninth year; and either the memory ot 
the morality of the poet must have failed him, when 
he forgot or was guilty of this slip.^^ The weakest 
argument for the purity of this love has been drawn 
from the permanence of its effects, which survived 
the object of his passion. The reflection of M. de la 
Bastie, that virtue alone is capable of making impres- 
sions which death cannot efface, is one of those 
which everybody applauds, and everybody finds not 
to be true, the moment he examines his own breast 
or the records of human feeling. i- Such apoph- 
thegms can do nothing for Petrarch or for the cause 
of morality, except with the very weak and the very 
young. He that has made even a little progress 
beyond ignorance and pupilage cannot be edified 



perturbationibiis ; but M. Capperonier, libra- 
rian to the French king in 1762, who saw the 
MS. iu the Paris library, made an attestation that 
" on lit et qu'on doit lire, partubus exhaustum." 
De Sade joined the names of Messrs. Boudot and 
Bejot with M. Capperonier, and in the whole dis- 
cussion on this ptiibs, showed himself a downright 
literary rogue. See Riflessioni, etc. p. 267. Thomas 
Aquinas is called in to settle whether Petrarch's 
mistress was a chaste maid or a continent wife. 
" " Pigmallon, quanto lodar ti dei 
Dell' immagine tua, se mille volte 
N' avesti quel ch' i' sol una vorrei." 
Sonetto 58, Quando giiifise a Simon I' alto concetto 
Le Rime, etc. par. i. p. 189, edit. Ven. 1756. 
8 See Riflessioni, etc. p. 291. 

9»" Quel la rea e perversa passione che solo tutto 
mi occupava e mi regnava nel cuore." 

10 " Azion dishonesta " are his words. 

11 " A questa confessione cosi sincera diede forse 
occasione una nuova caduta ch' ei fece." Tirabos- 
chi, Storia, etc. torn. v. lib. iv. par. ii. p. 492. 

12 " II n'y a que la vertu seule qui soit capable de 
faire des impressions que la mort n'efface pas." M. 
de Bimard, Baron de la Rastie, in the Memoires de 
TAcademie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres for 

j 1740 and 1751. See also Riflessioni, etc. p. 295. 



356 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



with any thing but truth. What is called vindicat- 
ing the honor of an individual or a nation, is the 
most futile, tedious, and uninstruciive of all writ- 
ing; although it will always meet with more ap- 
plause than that sober criticism, which is attributed 
to the nialicious desire of reducing a great man to 
the common standard of humanity. It is, after all, 
not unlikely that our historian was right in retain- 
ing his favorite hypothetic salvo, which secures the 
author, although it scarcely saves the honor of the 
still unknown mistress of Petrarch.^ 



IX. PETRARCH. 

" They keep his dust in Arqtia^ where he died." 
Stanza xxxi. line i. 

Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his 
return from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban 
V. at Rome, in the year 1370, and, with the excep- 
tion of his celebrated visit to Venice in company 
with Francesco Novello de Carrara, he appears to 
have passed the four last years of his life between 
that charming solitude and Padua. For four 
months previous to his death he was in a state of 
continual languor, and in the morning of July the 
igth, in the year 1374, was found dead in his 
library chair with his head resting upon a book. 
The chair is still shown amongst the precious relics 
of Anjua, which, from the uninterrupted veneration 
that has been attached to every thing relative to tliis 
great man from the moment of his death to the pres- 
ent hour, have, it may be hoped, a better chance of 
authenticity than the Shakspearian memorials of 
Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Arqua (for the last syllabic is accented in pro- 
nunciation, although the analogy of the English 
language has been observed in the verse) is twelve 
miles from Padua, and about three miles on the 
right of the high road to Rovigo, in the bosom of 
the Euganean hills. After a walk of twenty min- 
ufts across a flat well-wooded meadow, you come 
to a litt'e blue lake, clear but fathomless, and to the 
foot of p succession of acclivities and hills, clothed 
with vini^yards and orchards, rich with fir and pome- 
granate trees, and every sunny fruit shrub. From 
the banks of the lake the road winds into the hills, 
and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a 
cleft where two ridges slojie towards each other, and 
nearly enclose the village. The houses are scattered 
at intervals on the steep sides of these summits; 
and that of the poet is on the edge of a little knoll 
overlooking two descents, and commanding a view, 
not only of the glowing gardens in the dales imme- 
diately beneath, but of the wide plains, above whose 
low woods of mulberry and willow, thickened into 
a dark mass by festoons of vines, tall single cy- 
presses, and the spires of towns, are seen in the 
distance, which stretches to the mouths of the Po 
and the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of 
these volcanic hills is warmer, and the vintage 
begins a week sooner than in the plains of Padua. 
Petrarch is laid, for he cannot be said to be buried, 



1 "And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was 
inexorable, he enjoyed, and might boast of enjoying, 
the nymph of poetry." Decline and Fall, chap. 
Ixx. p. 327, vol. xii. 8vo. Perhaps the if is here 
meant for although. 



in a sarcophagus of red marble, raised on four pilas- 
ters on an elevated base, and preserved from an 
association with meaner tombs. It stands conspicu- 
ously alone, but will be soon overshadowed by four 
lately planted laurels. Petrarch's Fountain, for 
here every thing is Petrarch's, springs and expands 
itself beneath an artificial arch, a little below the 
church, and abounds plentifully, in the diyest sea- 
son, with that soft water which was the ancient 
wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be more 
attractive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with 
hornets and wasps. No other coincidence could 
assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. 
The revolutions of centuries have spared these 
sequestered volleys, and the only violence which 
has been offered to the ashes of Petrarch was 
prompted, not by hate, but veneration. An attempt 
was made to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, 
and one of the arms was stolen by a Florentine 
through a rent which is still visible. The injury is 
not forgotten, but has served to identify the poet 
with the countiy where he was born, but where he 
would not live. A peasant boy of Arqua being 
asked who Petrarch was, replied, " that the people 
of the parsonage knew all about him, but that he 
only knew that he was a Florentine." 

Mr. Forsyth 2 was not quite correct in saying 
that Petrarch never returned to Tuscany after he 
had once quitted it when a boy. It appears he did 
pass through Florence on his way from Parma to 
Rome, and on his return in the year 1350, and 
remained there long enough to form some acquaint- 
ance with its most distinguished inhabitants. A 
Florentine gentleman, ashamed of the aversion of 
the poet for his native country, was eager to point 
out this trivial error in our accomplished traveller, 
whom he knew and respected for an extraordinary 
capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, 
joined to that engaging simplicity of manners which 
has been so frequently recognized as the surest, 
though it is certainly not an indispensable, trait of 
superior genius. 

Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anx- 
iously traced and recorded. The house in which 
he lodged is shown in Venice. The inhabitants of 
Arezzo, in order to decide the ancient controversy 
between their city and the neighboring Ancisa, 
where Petrarch was carried when seven months old, 
and remained imtil his seventh year, have desig- 
nated by a long inscription the spot where their 
great fellow-citizen was born. A tablet has been 
raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatha, 
at the cathedral, because he was archdeacon of that 
society, and was only snatched from his intended 
sepulture in their church by ^foreigu death. An- 
other tablet, with a bust, has been erected to him 
at Pavia, on account of his having passed the 
autumn of 1368 in that city, with his son-in-law 
Brossano. The political condition which has for 
ages precluded the Italians from the criticism of 
the living, has concentrated their attention to the 
illustration of the dead. 



X. TASSO. 

*' In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire; 
And Boileajt, whole rash envy,** etc 

Stanza xxxviii. lines 6 and 7. 

2 Remarks, etc. on Italy, p. 95, note, 2d edit. 



HISTORICAL IsrOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH. 



357 



Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreci- 
ates iasso may serve as well as any other speci- 
men to justify the opinion given of the harmony of 
French verse : — 

A Malherbe, a Racan, prefere Th^ophile, 
Et le clinquant du Tasse a tout I'or de Virgile. 
Sat. ix. vers. 176. 

The biographer Serassi,^ out of tenderness to the 
reputation either of the Italian or the French poet, 
is eager to observe that the satirist recanted or ex- 
plained away this censure, and subsequently al- 
lowed the author of the Jerusalem to be a " genius, 
sublime, vast, and happily born for the higher 
flights of poetry." To this we will add, that the 
recantation is far from satisfactory, when we exam- 
ine the whole anecdote as reported by Olivet.'- The 
sentence pronounced against him by Bohours'* is 
recorded only to the confusion of the critic, whose 
paliuodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, 
and would not, perhaps, accept. As to the opposi- 
tion which the Jerusalem encountered from the 
Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all 
competition with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, 
the disgrace of such opposition must also in some 
measure be laid to the charge of Alfonso, and the 
court of Ferrara. For Leonard Salviati, the prin- 
cipal and nearly the sole origin of this attack, was, 
there can be no doubt,* influenced by a hope to 
acquire the favor of the House of Este: an object 
which he thought attainable by exalting the reputa- 
tion of a native poet at the expense of a rival, then 
^prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts of 
Salviati must serve to show the contemporary 
opinion as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment; 
and will fill up the measure- of our indignation at 
the tyrant jailer. ^ In fact, the antagonist of Tasso 
was not disappointed in the reception given to his 
criticism; he was called to the court of Ferrara, 
where, having endeavored to heighten his claims to 
favor, by panegyrics on the family of his sovereign," 
he was in turn abandoned, and expired in neglected 



poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans wa? 
brought to a close m six years after the commence- 
ment of the controversy; and if the academy owed 
its first renown to havmg almost opened with such 
a paradox," it is probable that, on the other hand, 
the care of his reputation alleviated rather than 
aggravated the imprisonment of the injured poet. 
The defence of his father and of himself, for both 
were involved in the censure of Salviati, found em- 
ployment for many of his solitary hours, and the 
captive could have been but little embarrassed to re- 
ply to accusations, where, amongst other delinquen- 
cies, he was charged with invidiously omitting, in 
his comparison between France and Italy, to make 
any mention of the cupola of St. Maria del Fiore 
at Florence.* The late biographer of Ariosto seems 
as if willing to renew the controversy by doubting 
the interpretation ofTasso's self-estimation*' related 
in Serassi's life of the poet. But Tiraboschi had be- 
fore laid that rivalry at rest,'" by showing, that be- 
tween Ariosto and Tasso it is not a question of 
comparison, but of preference. 



1 La Vita del Tasso, lib. iii. p. 284, torn. ii. edit. 
Bergamo, 1790. 

2 Histoire de I'Academie Frangoise depuis 1652 
Jusqu'a 1700, par I'Abb^ d'Olivet, p. 181, edit. 
Amsterdam, 1730. " Mais, ensuite, venant a I'usage 
qu'il a fait de ses talens, j'aurais montr^ que le bon 
sens n'est pas toujours ce qui domine chez lui," p. 
182. Boileau said, he had not changed his opinion. 
" J'en ai si peu change, dit-il," etc. p. i8r. 

■* La Maniere de bien Penser dans les Ouvrages 
de I'Esprit, sec. dial. p. 39, edit. 1692. Philanthes 
is for Tasso, and says in the outset, " de tous les 
beaux esprits que I'ltalie a portes, le Tasse est 
peut-etre celui qui pense le plus noblement." But 
Bohours seems to speak in Eudoxus, who closes 
with the absurd comparison: " Faites valoir le 
Tasse tant qu'il vous plaira,je m'en tiens pour moi a 
Virgile," etc. Ibid. p. 102. 

* La Vita, etc. lib. iii. p. 90, torn. ii. The Eng- 
lish reader may see an account of the opposition of 
the Crusca to Tasso, in Dr. Black, Life, etc. chap. 
xvii. vol. ii. 

^ For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, 
that Tasso was neither more nor less than a prisoner 
of state, the reader is referred to " Historical Illus- 
trations of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold," p. 
5, and following. 

« Orazioni funebri . . . delle lodi di Don Luigi 



XI. ARIOSTO. 

" The lightning rent from Ariosto s bust, 
The iron crown of laiirel's mimicked leaves." 
Stanza xli. lines i and 2. 

Before the remains of Ariosto were removed 
from the Benedictine church to the library of Fer- 
rara, his bust, which surmounted the tomb, was 
struck by lightning, and a crown of iron laurels 
melted away. The event has been recorded by a 
writer of the last century. ^^ The transfer of these 
sacred ashes, on the 6th of June, 1801, was one of 
the most brilliant spectacles of the short-lived Italian 
Republic ; and to consecrate the memory of the 
ceremony, the once famous fallen Intrepidi were 
revived and re-formed into the Ariostean academy. 
The large public place through which the pro- 
cession paraded was then for the first time called 
Ariosto Square. The author of the Orlando is jeal- 
ously claimed as the Homer, not of Italy, but Fer- 
rara. '^ The mother of Ariosto was of Reggio, and 



Cardinal d'Este . . . delle lodi di Donno Alfonso 
d'Este. See La Vita, lib. iii. p. 117. 

' It was founded in 1582, and the Cruscan answer 
to Pellegrino, Caraffa, or Epica poesia, was pub- 
lished in 1584. 

^ " Cotanto pote sempre in lui il veleno della sua 
pessima volonta contro alia nazion Fiorentina." 
La Vita, lib. iii. pp. 96, 98, torn. ii. 

y La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, scritta dall' Abate 
Girolamo Baruffaldi Giuniore, etc. Ferrara, 1807, 
lib. iii. p. 262. See " Historical Illustrations," 
etc. p. 26. 

10 Storia della Lett. etc. lib. iii. torn. vii. par. iii. 
p. 1220, sect. 4. 

11 " Mi raccontarono que' monaci,ch'essendo ca- 
dutoun fulminenella loro chiesa schiant6esso dalle 
temple la corona di lauro a quell' immortale poeta." 
Op. di Bianconi, vol. iii. p. 176, ed. Milano, 1802; 
lettera al Signor Guido Savini Arcifisiocritico, sull' 
indole di un fulmine caduto in Dresda I'anno 1759. 

^2 "Appassionatoammiratoreedinvitto apologist* 
deir Omero Ferrarese." The title was first given 



358 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



the house in which he was born is carefully distin- I 
guished by a tablet with these words: " Qui nacque 
Ludovico Ariosto, il giorno 8. di Settembre dell' 
anno 1474." iJut tlie Ferrarese make light of the 
accident by which their poet was born abroad, and 
claim him exclusively for their own. They possess 
his bones, they show his arm-chair, and his ink- 
stand, and his autographs. 

" Hie illius arma. 

Hie currus fuit " 

The house where he lived, the room where he died, 
are designated by his own replaced memorial, ^ and 
by a recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jeal- 
ous of their claims since the animosity of Denina, 
arising from a cause which their apologists myste- 
riously hint is not unknown to them, ventured to 
degrade their soil and climate to a Boeotian incapac- 
ity for all spiritual productions. A quarto volume 
has been called forth by the detraction, and this 
supplement to Barotti's Memoirs of the illustrious 
Ferrarese has been considered a triumphant reply 
to the " Quadro Storico Statistico dell' Alta Italia." 



XH. 



ANCIENT SUPERSTITIONS 
SPECTING LIGHTNING. 



RE- 



" For the true laurel - wreath which Glory 
•weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves." 
Stanza xli. lines 4 and 5. 

The eagle, the sea calf, the laurel,^ and the white 
vine,-^ were amongst the most approved preserva- 
tives against lightning. Jupiter chose the first, 
Augustus Csesar the second,'* and I'iberius never 
failed to wear a wreath of the third when the sky 
threatened a thunder-storm.'' These superstitions 
may be received without a sneer in a country where 
the magical properties of the hazel twig have not 
lost all their credit; and perhaps the reader may 
not be much surprised to find that a commentator 
on Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely to 
disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of Tibe- 
rius, by mentioning that a few years before he 
wrote, a laurel was actually struck by lightning at 
Rome." 



XIII. 



" Know that the ligJitning sanctifies below." 
Stanza xli. line 8. 

The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
Forum, having been touched by lightning, were held 
sacred, and the memory of the accident was pre- 



by Tasso, and is quoted to the confusion of the 
Tassisti, lib. iii. pp. 262, 265. La Vita di M. L. 
Ariosto, etc. 

' " Parva sed apta mihi, sed nulli obnoxia, sed non 
Sordida, parta meo sed tamen sere domus." 

2 Aquila, vilulus marinus, et laurus, fulmine non 
feriuntur. Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. ii. cap. 56. 

3 Columella, lib. x. 

* Sueton. in Vit. August, cap. xc. 
6 Sueton. in Vit. Tiberii, cap. Ixix. 
Note 2, p. 409, edit. Lugd. Bat. 1667. 



served by a puteal, or altar resembling the mouth 
of a well, with a little chapel covering the cavity 
supposed to be made by the thunderbolt. Bodies 
scathed and persons struck dead were thought to be 
incorruptible;^ and a stroke not fatal conferred per- 
petual dignity upon the man so distinguished by 
heaven.* 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a white 
garment, and buried where they fell. The supersti- 
tion was not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter.' 
the Lombards believed in the omens furnished by 
lightning ; and a Christian priest confesses that, by 
a diabolical skill in interpreting thunder, a seer fore- 
told to Agilulf, duke of Turin, an event which came 
to pass, and gave him a queen and a crown.'-' There 
was, however, something equivocal in this sign, 
which the ancient inhabitants of Rome did not 
ahvays consider propitious; and as the fears •are 
likely to last longer than the consolations of super- 
stition, it is not strange that the Romans of the age 
of Leo X. should have been so much terrified at 
some misinterpreted storms as to require the exhor- 
tations of a scholar, who arrayed all the learning on 
thunder and lightning to prove the omen favorable; 
beginning with the flash which struck the walls of 
Velitrse, and including that which played upon a 
gate at Florence, and foretold the pontificate of one 
of its citizens. I'' 



XIV. THE VENUS OF MEDICIS. 

" There, too, the Goddess loves in stone." 
Stanza xlix. line i. 

The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly sug- 
gests the lines in the Seasons, and the comparison 
of the object with the description proves, nr>t only 
the correctness of the portrait, but the peculiar turn 
of thought, and, if the term may be used, the sex- 
ual imagination of the descriptive poet. The same 
conclusion may be deduced from another hint in the 
same episode of Musidora; for Thomson's notion 
of the privileges of favored love must have been 
either very primitive, or rather deficient in delicacy, 
when he made his gratefid nymph inform her dis- 
creet Damon that in some happier moment he might 
perhaps be the companion of her bath: — 

" The time may come you need not fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the 
Life of Dr. Johnson We will not leave the Floren- 
tine gallery without a word on the Whctter. It 
seems strange that the character of that disputed 
statue should not be entirely decided, at least in the 
mind of any one who has seen a sarcophagus in tiie 
vestibule of the Basilica of St. Paul withoiu the walls, 
at Rome, where the whole group of the fable of Mar 
syas is seen in tolerable preservation; and the Scy- 

7 Vid. J. C. Bullenger, de Terrae Motu et Fulini- 
nib. lib. v. cap. xi. 

* OuSel? Kepavi/cD^eis arijuo? eaTt, oBev Kai cu? 
fleb? TLixaTOLi. Plut. Sympos. vid. J. C. BuUeng. 
ut sup. 

3 Pauli Biaconi de Gestis Langobard. lib. iii. cap. 
xiv. fo. 15, edit. Taurin. 1527. 

1" I. P. Valeriani de fulminum significationibus 
declamatio, ap. Grsev. Antiq. Rom. tom. v. p. 593, 
The declamation is addressed to Julian of Medicis 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH 



3.^9 



thian slave whetting the kniie is represented exactly 
in the same position as this celebrated masterpiece. 
The slave is not naked; but it is easier to get rid of 
this ditificulty than to suppose the knife in the hand 
of the Florentine statue an instrument for shaving, 
which it must be, if, as Lanzi supposes, the man is 
no other than the barber of Julius Caesar. Winkel- 
mann, illustrating a bas-relief of the same subject, 
follows the opinion of Leonard Agostini, and his 
authority might have been thought conclusive, even 
if the resemblance did not strike the most careless 
observer.' Amongst the bron;^es of the same princely 
collection is still to be seen the inscribed tablet cop- 
ied and commented upon by Mr. Gibbon.- Our his- 
torian found some difficulties, but did not desist from 
his illustration: he might be vexed to hear that his 
criticism has been thrown away on an inscription 
now generally recognized to be a forgery. 



XV. MADAME DE STAEL. 

"/« Santa Grace's holy precincts lie." 

Stanza liv. line i. 

This name will recall the memory, not only of 
those whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into 
the centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of 
her whose eloquence was poured over the illustri- 
ous ashes, and whose voice is now as mute as those 
she sung. Corinn.\ is no more; and with her 
should expire the fear, the flattery, and the envy, 
which threw too dazzling or too dark a cloud round 
the march of genius, and forbade the steady gaze 
of disinterested criticism. We have her picture 
embellished or distorted, as friendship or detraction 
has held the pencil: the impartial portrait was 
hardly to be expected from a contemporary. The 
immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, 
be far from affording a just estimate of her singular 
capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, and 
the hope of associated fame, which blunted the 
edge of censure, must cease to exist. — The dead 
have no sex; they can surprise by no new mira- 
cles ; they can confer no privilege : Corinna has 
ceased to be a woman — she is only an author : 
and it may be foreseen that many will repay them- 
selves for former complaisance, by a severity to 
which the extravagance of previous praises may 
perhaps give the color of truth. The latest poster- 
ity, for to the latest posterity they will assuredly 
descend, will have to pronounce upon her various 
productions ; and the longer the vista through 
which they are seen, the more accurately minute 
will be the object, the more certain the justice, of 
the decision. She will enter into that existence in 
which the great writers of all ages and nations are, 
as it were, associated in a world of their own, and, 
from that superior sphere, shed their eternal influ- 
ence for the control and consolation of mankind. 
But the individual will gradually disappear as the 
author is more distinctly seen : some one, there- 
fore, of all those whom the charms of involuntary 

^ See Monim. Ant. Ined. par. i. cap. xvii. n. xlii. 
p. 50 , and Storia telli Arti, etc. lib. xi. cap. i. 
torn. ii. p. 314, note B. 

2 Nomina gentesque Antiquse Italiae, p. 204, edit. 
Oct. 



wit, and of easy hospitality, attracted within the 
friendly circles of Coppet, snoiild rescue from ob- 
livion those virtues which, although they are said 
to love the shade, are, in fact, more frequently 
chilled than excited by the domestic cares of pri\ ate 
life. Some one should be found to portray the un- 
affected graces with which she adorned those dearer 
relationships, the performance of whose duties is 
rather discovered amongst the interior .secrets, than 
seen in the outward management, of f.inily inter- 
course ; and which, indeed, it requires the delica< y 
of genuine affection to qualify for the e\ e ol an in- 
different spectator. Some one shoidd be foi:i d, \ < t 
to celebrate, but to describe, the amiable n.istress 1 1' 
an open inansion, the centre of a society, ev<-r va- 
ried, and always pleased, the creator of which, di- 
vested of the ambition and the arts oi public rivjdry, 
shone forth only to give fresh animation to those 
around her. The mother tenderly affectionr.te ai.d 
tenderly beloved, the friend unboimdedly generous, 
but still esteemed, the charitable patroness cf all 
distress, cannot be forgotten by those whom she 
cherished, and protected, and fed. Her loss will be 
mourned the most where she was known the best ; 
and, to the sorrows of very many friends, and more 
dependents, may be offered the disinterested regret 
uf a stranger, who, amidst the siiblimer scenes of the 
Leman lake, received his chief satisfaction from 
contemplating the engaging qualities of the incom- 
parable Corinna. 



XVI. ALFIERI. 

" Here repose 

Angela's, Alfieri's bones." 

Stanza liv. lines 6 and 7. 

Alfieri is the great name of this age. The Ital- 
ians, without waiting for the hundred years, con- 
sider him as " a poet good in law." — His memory 
is the more dear to them because he is the bard of 
freedom; and because, as such, his tragedies can 
receive no countenance from any of their sover- 
eigns. They are but very seldom, and but verj' 
few of them, allowed to be acted. It was observed 
by Cicero, that nowhere were the true opinions and 
feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the 
theatre. 3 In the autumn of 1816, a celebrated im- 
provisatore exhibited his talents at the Opera-Eouse 
of Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for 
the subjects of his poetry was received by a very 



3 The free expression of their honest sentiments 
survived their liberties. Titius, the friend of An- 
tony, presented them with games in the theatre of 
Pompey. They did not suffer the biilliancy of the 
spectacle to efface from their memory' that the man 
who furnished them with the entertainment had 
murdered the son of Pompey: they drove him 
from the theatre with curses. The moral sense of 
a populace, spontaneously expressed, is never 
wrong. Even the soldiers of the triumvirs joined 
in the execration of the citizens, by shouting round 
the chariots of Lepidus and Plancus, who had pro- 
scribed their brothers, De Gertfianis von de 
Gallis duo triumphant Consnles; a saying v orth 
a record, were it nothing but a good pun. [C. Veil. 
Paterculi Hist. lib. ii. cap. Ixxix. p. 78, edit, 
Elzevir. 1639. Ibid. lib. ii. cap. Ixxvii.] 



360 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



numerous audience, for the most part in silence, or ; 
with laugliter; but wiieu the assistant, unfolding 
one of the papers exclaimed, The apotheosis of 
Victor Alfieri, the whole theatre burst into a j 
shout, and the applause was continued for some 
moments. The lot did not fall on Alfieri; and the 
Signor Sgricci had to pour forth his extemporary 
common-places on the bombardment of Algiers. 
The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite so 
much as might be thonglit from a first view of the 
ceremony; and the police not only takes care to 
look at the papers beforehand, but, in case of any 
prudential after-thought, steps in to correct the 
blindness of chance. The proposal for deifying Al- 
fieri was received with immediate enthusiasm, the 
rather because it was conjectured there would be no 
opportunity of carrying it into effect. 



XVII. MACHIAVELLI. 

" Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence 
it ^ose." Stanza liv. line 9. 

The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral in- 
scriptions, which so often leaves us uncertain 
whether the structure before us is an actual deposi- 
tory, or a cenotaph, or a simple memorial not of 
death but life, has given to the tomb of Machiavelli 
no information as to the place or time of the birth 
or death, the age or parentage, of the historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. 

There seems at least no reason why the name 
should not have been put above the sentence which 
alludes to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices 
which have passed the name of Machiavelli into an 
epithet proverbial of iniquity exist no longer at 
Florence. His memory was persecuted as his life 
had been for an attachment to liberty incompatible 
with the new system of despotism, which succeeded 
the fall of the free governments of Italy. He was 
put to the torture for being a " libertine," that is, 
for wishing to restore the republic of Florence; 
and such .are the undying efforts of those who are 
interested in the perversion not only of the nature 
of actions, but the meaning of words, that what 
was once patriotism, lias by degrees come to 
signify debauch. We have ourselves outlived the 
old meaning of " liberality," which is now another 
word for treason in one country and for infatuation 
in all. It seems to have been a strange mistake to 
accuse the author of " The Prince," as being a 
pander to tyranny; and to think tliat the Inquisi- 
tion would condemn his work for such a delin- 
quency. The fact is, that Machiavelli, as is usual 
with those against whom no crime can be proved, 
was suspected of and charged with atheism; and 
the first and last most violent opposers of " The 
Prince " were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded 
the Inquisition " benche fosse tardo," to prohibit 
the treatise, and the other qualified the sccretar^"^ of 
the Florentine republic as no better than a fool. 
The father Possevin was proved never to have read 
the book, and the father Lucchesini not to have un- 
derstood it. It is clear, however, that such critics 
must have objected not to the slavery of the doc- 



trines, but to the supposed tendency of a lesson 
which shows how distinct are the interests of a 
monarch from the happiness of mankind. The 
Jesuits are reestablished in Italy, and the last 
chapter of " The Prince " may again call forth a 
particidar refutation from those who are employed 
once more in moulding the minds of the rising 
generation, so as to receive the impressions of 
despotism. The chapter bears for title, " Esorta- 
zione a liberare la Italia dai Barbari," and con- 
cludes with a libertine excitement to the future 
redemption of Italy. " Non si deve adunque lasciar 
passare questa occasione, acciocche la Italia vegsa 
dopo tanto tempo apparire un suo redentore. Ne 
posso esprimere con qual amore ei fusse ricevuto 
in tutte quelle provincie, che hanno patito per 
queste illuvioni esterne, con qual sete di vendetta, 
con che ostinata fede, con che lacrime. Quali 
porte se gli serrerebbono? Quali popoli gli ncg- 
herebbono la obbedienza? Quale Italiano gli neg- 
herebbe Tossequio? AD ognuno puzza questo baR' 

BARO DOMINIO."! 



XVIII. DANTE. 

" Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar^ 
Stanza Ivii. line i. 

Dante was born in Florence, in the year 1261. 
He fought in two battles, was fourteen times am- 
bassador, and once prior of the republic. When 
the party of Charles of Anjou triumphed over the 
Bianchi, he was absent on an embassy to Pope 
Boniface VI 11., and was condemned to two years* 
banishment, and to a fine of 8,000 lire; on the non- 
payment of which he was further punished by the 
sequestration of all his property. Tiie republic, 
tiowever, was not content with this satisfaction, for 
in 1772 was discovered in the archives at Florence 
a sentence in which Dante is the eleventh of a list 
of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt alive; 
Talis perveniens igne comburatur sic quod 
ruoriatrtr. The pretext for this judgment was a 
proof of unfair barter, extortions, and illicit gains. 
Baracteriarum iniquaruin extorsionum, et 
illicitoruvt lucroruutj- and with such an accusa- 
tion it is not strange that Dante should have alwaj^s 
protested his innocence, and the injustice of his 
fellow-citizens. His appeal to Florence was accom- 
panied by another to the Emperor Henry ; and the 
death of that sovereign in 1313 was the signal for a 
sentence of irrevocable banishment. He had before 
lingered near Tuscany with hopes of recall; then 
travelled into the north of Italy, where Verona had 
to boast of his longest residence; and he finally 
settled at Ravenna, which was his ordinary but not 
constant abode until his death. The refusal of the 
Venetians to grant him a public audience, on the 
part of Guido Novello da Polenta, his protector, is 
said to have been the principal cause of this event, 
which happened in 1321. He was buried ("in 

1 II Principe di Niccol6 Machiavelli, etc. con la 
prefazione e le note istoriche e politiche di M. 
Amelot de la Houssaye e 1' esame e confutazione 
deir opera. . . . Cosmopoli, 1769. 

- Storia della Lett. Ital. tom. v. lib. iii. par. 2. p. 
448. Tiraboschi is incorrect: the dates of the three 
decrees against Dante are a.d. 1302, 1314, and 1316. 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH. 



361 



sacra minorum aede " ) at Ravenna, in a handsome 
tomb, which was erected by Guido, restored by 
Bernardo Bembo in 1483, prsetor for that rcpubhc 
which had refused to hear him, again restored by 
Cardinal Corsi, in 1692, and replaced by a more- 
magnificent sepulchre, constructed in 1780 at the 
expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. 
The offence or misfortune of Dante was an attach- 
ment to a defeated party, and, as his least favorable 
biographers allege against him, too great a freedom 
of speech and haughtiness of manner. But the 
next age paid honors almost divine to the exile. 
The Florentines, having in vain and frequently 
attempted to recover his body, crowned his image 
in a church,' and his picture is still one of the idols 
of their cathedral. They struck medals, they raised 
statues to him. The cities of Italy, not being able 
to dispute about his own birth, contended for that 
of his great poem, and the Florentines thought it 
for their honor to prove that he had finished the 
seventh Canto before they drove him from his native 
city. Fifty-one years after his death, they endowed 
a professorial chair for the expounding of his verses, 
and Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic em- 
ployment. The example was imitated by Bologna 
and Pisa, and the commentators, if they performed 
but little service to literature, augmented the ven- 
eration which beheld a sacred or moral allegory in 
all the images of his mystic muse. His birth and 
his infancy were discovered to h^e been distin- 
guished above those of ordinary men: the author 
of the Decameron, his earliest biographer, relates 
that his mother was warned in a dream of the im- 
portance of her pregnancy: and it was found, by 
others, that at ten years of age he had manifested 
his precocious passion for that wisdom or theology, 
which, under the name of Beatrice, had been mis- 
taken for a substantial mistress. When the Divine 
Comedy had been recognized as a mere mortal pro- 
duction, and at the distance of two centuries, when 
criticism and competition had sobered thejudgment 
of the Italians, Dante was seriously declared supe- 
rior to Homer;- and though the preference appeared 
to some casuists " an heretical blasphemy worthy 
of the flames," the contest was vigorously main- 
tained for nearly fifty years. In later times it was 
made a question which of the Lords of Verona 
could boast of having patronized him,'' and the 
jealous scep^-cism of one writer would not allow 
Ravenna the undoubted possession of his bones. 
Even the critical Tiraboschi was inclined to believe 
that the poet had foreseen and foretold one of the 
discoveries of Galileo. — Like the great originals of 
other nations, his popularity has not always main- 
tained the same level. The last age seemed in- 
clined to undervalue him as a model and a study; 
and Bettinelli one day rebuked his pupil Monti, for 
poring over the harsh and obsolete extravagances 
of the Commedia. The present generation having 
recovered from the Gallic idolatries of Cesarotti, 
has returned to the ancient worship, and the Dan- 
teggiare of the northern Italians is thought even 
indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans. 

There is still much curious information relative 

1 So relates Ficino,but some think his coronation 
cmly an allegory. See Storia, etc. ut sup. p. 453. 

- By Varchi, in his Ercolano. The controversy 
continued from 1570 to 1616. See Storia, etc. tom. 
vii. lib. iii. par. iii. p. 1280. 

3 Gio, Jacopo Dionisi Canonico di Verona. Serie 



to the life and writings of this great poet, which has 
not as yet been collected even by the Italians; but 
the celebrated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply 
this defect, and it is not to be regretted that this 
national work has been reserved for one so devoted 
to his country and the cause of truth. 



XIX. TOMB OF THE SCIPIOS. 

" Like Scif>io, buried by the upbraiding shore; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war. 
Proscribed" etc. 

Stanza Ivii. lines 2, 3, and 4. 

The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was 
not buried at Liternum, whither he had retired to 
voluntary banishment. This tomb was near the 
sea-shore, and the story of an inscription upon it, 
Ingrata Fatria, having given a name to a modern 
tower, is, if not true, an agreeable fiction. If he 
was not buried he certainly lived there.* 

In cosi angusta e solitaria villa 

Era '1 grand' uomo che d' Africa s' appella 

Perche prima col ferro al vivo aprilla.^ 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice pecu- 
liar to republics; and it seems to be forgotten that 
for one instance of popular inconstancy, we have a 
hundred examples of the fall of courtly favorites. 
Besides, a people have often repented — a monarch 
seldom or never. Leaving apart many familiar 
proofs of this fact, a short story may show the 
difference between even an aristocracy and the 
multitude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at 
Portolongo, and many years afterwards in the more 
decisive action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled 
by the Venetian government, and thrown into 
chains. The Avvogadori proposed to behead him, 
but the supreme tribunal was content with the sen- 
tence of imprisonment. Whilst Pisani was suffer- 
ing this unmerited disgrace, Chioza, in the vicinity 
of the capital,'' was by the assistance of tlie Signor 
of Padua, delivered into the hands of Pietro Doria. 
At the intelligence of that disaster, the great bell of 
St. Mark's tower tolled to arms, and the people and 
the soldiery of the galleys were summoned to the 
repulse of the approaching enemy; but they pro- 
tested they would not move a step, unless Pisani 
were liberated and placed at their head. The great 
council was instantly assembled: the prisoner was 
called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Contarini, 
informed him of the demands of the people, and 
the necessities of the State, whose only hope of 
safety was reposed on his efforts, and who implored 
him to forget the indignities he had endured in her 
service. " I have submitted," replied the mag- 
nanimous republican, " I have submitted to your 
deliberations without complaint; I have supported 

di Aneddoti, n. 2. See Storia, etc. tom. v. lib. i. 
par. i. p. 24. 

* Vitam Literni egit sine desiderio urbis. See T. 
Liv. Hist. lib. xxxviii. Livy reports that some 
said he was buried at Liternum, others at Rome. 
Ibid. cap. Ivi. 

6 Trionfo della Castita. 

e See Note VI., p. 319. 



362 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



patiently the pains of imprisonment, for they were 
mflicted at your command: this is no time to inquire 
whether I deserved them — the good of the republic 
may have seemed to require it, and that which the 
republic resolves is always resolved wisely. Behold 
me ready to lay down my life for the preservation 
of my country." Pisani was appointed generalis- 
simo, and by his exertions, in conjunction with 
those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered 
the ascendency over their maritime rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less unjust to 
their citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, 
both with the one and the other, seems to have been 
a national, not an individual object : and notwith- 
standing the boasted equality before the laws, 
which an ancient Greek writer ^ considered the 
great distinctive mark between his countrymen and 
the barbarians, the mutual rights of fellow-citizens 
seem never to have been the principal scope of the 
old democracies. The world may have not yet seen 
an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, in 
which the distinction between the liberty of former 
States, and the signification attached to that word 
by the happier constitution of England, is ingen- 
iously developed. The Italians, however, when 
they had ceased to be free, still looked back with a 
sigh upon those times of turbulence, when every 
citizen might rise to a share of sovereign power, 
and have never been taught fully to appreciate the 
repose of a monarchy. Sperone Speroni, when 
Francis Maria II. Duke of Rovere proposed the 
question, " which was preferable, the republic or 
the principality — the perfect and not durable, or 
the less perfect, and not so liable to change," 
replied, " that our happiness is to be measured by 
its quality, not by its duration; and that he pre- 
ferred to live for one day like a man, than for a 
hundred years like a brute, a stock, or a stone." 
This was thought, and called, a magnificent an- 
swer, down to the last days of Italian servitude.^ 



XX. PETRARCH'S CROWN. 

"And the crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supreviely 

wore 
Upon afar and foreign soil had grow 71.''' 

Stanza Ivii. lines 6, 7, and 8. 

The Florentines did not take the opportunity of 
Petrarch's short visit to their city in 1350 to revoke 
the decree which confiscated the property of his 
father, who had been banished shortly after the ex- 
ile of Dante. His crown did not dazzle them ; but 
when in the next year they were in want of his as- 
sistance in the formation of their university, they 
repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was sent 
to Padua to entreat the laureate to conclude his 
wanderings in the bosom of his native country, 
where he might finish his i/nmortal Africa, and 
enjoy, with his recovered possessions, the esteem of 



1 The Greek boasted that he was io-ovo/ao?. See 
the 'last chapter of the first book of Dionysius of 
Halicarnassus. 

2 " E intorno alia magnifica risposta^f etc. 
Serassi, Vita del Tasso, lib. iii. p. 149, torn. ii. edit. 
2, Bergamo. 



all classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him 
the option of a book and the science he might con- 
descend to expound : they called him the glory of 
his country, who was dear, and would be dearer 
to them ; and they added, that if there was any 
thing unpleasing in their letter, he ought to return 
amongst them, were it only to correct their style.^ 
Petrarch seemed at first to listen to the flattery and 
to the entreaties of his friend, but he did not return 
to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to the tomb 
of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 



XXI. BOCCACCIO. 

" Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
His dust. Stanza Iviii. lines i and 2. 

Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Mi- 
chael and St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the 
Valdelsa, which was by some supposed the place of 
his birth. There he passed the latter part of his 
life in a course of laborious study, which shortened 
his existence ; and there might his ashes have been 
secure, if not of honor, at least of repose. But the 
" hyaena bigots" of Certaldo tore up the tombstone 
of Boccaccio, and ejected it from the holy precincts 
of St. MichaeJ^and St. James. The occasion, and, 
it may be hoped, the excuse, of this ejectment was 
the making of a new floor for the church ; but the 
fact is, that the tombstone was taken up and thrown 
aside at the bottom of the building. Ignorance may 
share the sin with bigotry. It would be painful to 
relate such an exception to the devotion of the Ital- 
ians for their great names, could it not be accom- 
panied by a trait more honorably conformable to the 
general character of the nation. The principal per- 
son of the district, the last branch of the house of 
Medicis, afforded that protection to the memory of 
the insulted dead which her best ancestors had dis- 
pensed upon all contemporary merit. The Marchion- 
ess Lenzoni rescued the tombstone of Boccaccio 
from the neglect in which it had some time lain, and 
found for it an honorable elevation in her own man- 
sion. She has done more : the house in which the 
poet lived has been as little respected as his tomb, 
and is falling to ruin over the head of one indiffer- 
ent to the name of its former tenant. It consists 
of two or three little chambers, and a low tower, on 
which Cosmo II. afifixed an inscription. This house 
she has taken measures to purchase, and propo.ses 
to devote to it that care and consideration which 
are attached to the cradle and to the roof of genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of 
Boccaccio ; but ttie man who exhausted his little 
patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who was 
amongst the first, if not the first, to allure the 
science and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of 
Italy; — who not only invented a new style, but 
founded, or certainly fixed, a new language ; who, 
besides the esteem of every polite court of Europe, 
was thought worthy of employment by the pre- 



3 "Accingiti innoltre, se ci e lecito ancor 1' esor- 
tarti, a compire 1' immortal tua Africa . . . Se ti 
avviene d' incontrare nel nostro stile cosa che ti dis. 
piaccia, ci5 debb' essere un altro notivo ad esaudire 
i desiderj della tua patria." Storia della Lett. Ital, 
torn. V. par. i. lib. i. p. 76. 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH. 



363 



dominant republic of his own country, and, what is 
more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who lived the 
life of a philosopher and a freeman, and who died 
in the pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might 
have found more consideration than he has met 
with from the priest of Certaldo, and from a late 
English traveller, who strikes off his portrait as an 
odious, contemptible, licentious writer, whose im- 
pure remains should be suffered to rot without a 
record.' That English traveller, unfortunately for 
those who have to deplore the loss of a very amiable 
person, is beyond all criticism; but the mortality 
which did not protect Boccaccio from Mr. Eustace, 
must not defend Mr. Eustace from the impartial 
judgment of his successors. Death may canonize 
his virtues, not his errors; and it may be modestly 
pronounced that he transgressed, not only as an 
author, but as a man, when he evoked the shade of 
Boccaccio in company with that of Aretine, amidst 
the sepulchres of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it 
with indignity. As far as respects 

" II flagello de' Principi, 
II divin Pietro Aretino," 

it is of little import what censure is passed upon a 
coxcomb -who owes his present existence to the 
above burlesque character given to him by the poet, 
whose amber has preserved many other grubs and 
worms: but to classify Boccaccio with such a per- 
son, and to excommunicate his very ashes, must of 
itself make us doubt of the qualification of the 
classical tourist for writing upon Italian, or, in- 
deed, upon any other literature; for ignoranc*. on 
one point may incapacitate an author merely for 
that particular topic, but subjection to a professional 
prejudice must render him an unsafe director on all 
occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be 
made what is vulgarly called " a case of conscience," 
and this poor excuse is all that can be offered for 
the priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classi- 
cal Tour. It would have answered the purpose to 
confine the censure to the novels of Boccaccio; and 
gratittide to that source which supplied the muse 
of Dryden with her last and most harmonious num- 
bers might, perhaps, have restricted that censure to 
the objectionable qualities of the hundred tales. At 
any rate the repentance of Boccaccio mght have 
arrested his exhumation, and it should have been 
recollected and told, that in his old age he wrote a 
letter entreating his friend to discourage the reading 



1 Classical Tour, chap. ix. vol. ii. p. 355, edit. 3d. 
" Of Boccaccio, the modern Petronius, we say noth- 
ing; the abuse of genius is more odious and more 
contemptible than its absence; and it imports little 
where the impure remains of a licentious author 
are consigned to their kindred dust. For the same 
reason the traveller may pass unnoticed the tomb of 
the malignant Aretino." This dubious phrase is 
hardly enough to save the tourist from the suspi- 
cion of another blunder respecting the burial-place 
of Aretine, whose tomb was in the church of Si. 
Luke at Venice, and gave rise to the famous con- 
troversy of which some notice is taken in Bayle. 
Now the words of Mr. Eustace would lead us to 
think the tomb was at Florence, or at least was to 
be somewhere recognized. Whether the inscription 
so much disputed was ever written on the tomb can- 
not now be decided, for all memorial of this author 
has disappeared from the church of St. Luke. 



of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, and for 
the sake of the author, who would not have an 
apologist always at hand to state in his excuse that 
he wrote it when young, and at the command of his 
superiors.- It is neither the licentiousness of the 
writer, nor the evil propensities of the reader, which 
have given to the Decameron alone, of all the works 
of Boccaccio, a perpetual popularity. The estab- 
lishment of a new and delightful dialect conferred 
an immortality on the works in which it was first 
fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, for the same 
reason, fated to survive his self-admired Africa, the 
'• favorite of kings." The invariable trails of na- 
ture and feeling with which the novels, as well as 
the verses, abound, have doubtless been the chief 
source of the foreign celebrity of both authors; but 
Boccaccio, as a man, is no more to be estimated by 
that work, than Petrarch is to be regarded in no 
other light than as the lover of Laura. Even, how- 
ever, had the father of the Tuscan prose been known 
only as the author of the Decameron, a considerate 
writer would have been cautious to pronounce a 
sentence irreconcilable with the unerring voice of 
many ages and nations. An irrevocable value has 
never been stamped upon any work solely recom- 
mended by impurity. 

The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, 
which began at a very early period, was the choice 
of his scandalous personages in the cloisters as well 
as the courts; but the princes only laughed at the 
gallant adventures so unjustly charged upon queen 
Ther ilelinda, whilst the priesthood cried shame upon 
the debauches drawn from the convent and the her- 
mitage; and most probably for the opposite reason, 
namely, that the picture was faithful to the life. 
Two of the novels are allowed to be facts usefully 
turned into tales, to deride the canonization of 
rogues and laymen. Ser Ciappelletto and Marcel- 
linus are cited with applause even by the decent 
Muratori.3 The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in 
Bayle, states, that a new edition of the novels was 
proposed, of which the expurgation consisted in 
omitting the words " monk " and " nun " and tack- 
ing the immoralities to other names. The literary 
history of Italy particularizes no such edition; but it 
was not long before the whole of Europe had but 
one opinion of the Decameron; and ihe absolution 
of the author seems to have been a point settl9d at 
least a hundred years ago: " On se feroit sifaer si 
I'on pretendoit convaincre Boccace de n'avoir pas 
ete honnete homme, puisqu'il a fait le Decameron." 
So said one of the best men, and perhaps the best 
critic, that ever lived — the very martyr to in'.par- 
tiality.* But as this information, that in the begin- 
ning of the last century one would have been hooted 
at for pretending that Boccaccio was not a good 
man, may seem to come from one of those enemies 
who are to be suspected, even when they make us 
a present of truth, a more acceptable contrast with 
the proscription of the body, soul, and muse of 



2 " Non enim ubique est, qui in excusalionem 
meam consurgens dicat, juvenis scripsit, et majo- 
ris coactus imperio." The letter was addressed to 
Maghinard of Cavalcanti, marshal of the kingdom 
of Sicily. See Tiraboschi, Storia, etc. torn. v. par. 
ii. lib. iii. p. 525, ed. Veii. 1795. 

3 Dissertazioni sopra le Antichita Italiane, Diss. 
Iviii. p. 253, torn. iii. edit. Milan, 1751. 

* Eclaircissement, etc. etc. p. 638, edit. Basle, 
1741, in the Supplement to Bayle's Dictionary. 



364 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PlLCRtMAGE. 



Boccaccio may be found in a few words from the 
virtuous, the patriotic contemporary, who thought 
one of the tales of this impure writer worthy a 
Latin version from his own pen. " I have re- 
marked elsewhere," says Petrarch, writing to Boc- 
caccio, " that the book itself has been worried by 
certain dogs, but stoutly defended by your staff 
and voice. Nor was I astonished, for I have had 
proof of the vigor of your mind, and I know you 
have fallen on that unaccommodating incapable 
race of mortals, who, whatever they either like 
not, or know not, or cannot do, are sure to repre- 
hend in others; and on those occasions only put on 
a show of learning and eloquence, but otherwise 
are entirely dumb." i 

It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do 
not resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them 
who did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would 
not lose the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his 
memory. Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning 
of the sixteenth century, erected at Arqua, opposite 
to the tomb of the Laureate, a tablet, in which he 
associated Boccaccio to the equal honors of Dante 
and of Petrarch. 



XXIL THE MEDICL 

" What is her pyramid of precio7is stones ? " 
Stanza Ix. line i. 

Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo 
and expires with his grandson; that stream is pure 
only at the source; and it is in search of some me- 
morial of the virtuous republicans of the family that 
we visit the church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. The 
tawdry, glaring, unfinished chapel in that church, 
designed for tiie mausoleum of the Dukes of Tus- 
cany, set round with crowns and cotifins, gives birth 
to no emotions but those of contempt for the lavish 
vanity of a race of despots, whilst the pavement 
slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his Country, 
reconciles us to the name of Medici.' It was very 
natural for Corinna^ to suppose that the statue 
raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella de^ 
depositi w^s intended for his great namesake; but 
the ijiagnificent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a cof- 
fin half hidden in the niche of the sacristy. The 
decay of Tuscany dates from the sovereignty of the 
Medici. Of the sepulchral peace which succeeded 
to the establishment of the reigning families in Italy, 
our own Sidney has given us a glowing, but a faith- 
ful picture. " Notwithstanding all the seditions of 
Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, the horrid 
factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and Bian- 
chi, nobles and commons, they continued populous, 
strong, and exceeding rich; but in the space of less 
than a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable reign 



^ "Animadverti alicubi librum ipsum canum den- 
tibus lacessitum, tuo tamen baculo egregie tuaque 
yocji defensum. Nee miratus sum: nam et vires 
inaenii tui novi, et scio expertus esses hominum 
gOTUS insolens et ignavum, qui quicquid ipsi vel 
holunt vel nesciunt, vel non possunt, in aliis rep- 
rehendunt; ad hoc unum docti et arguti, sed elin- 
gues ad reliqua." Epist. Joan. Boccatio, 0pp. torn. 
i. p. 540, edit. Basil. 

2 Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico, Pater Patriae. 

3 Corinne, liv. xviii. chap. iii. vol. iii. p. 248. 



of the Medices is thought to have destroyed nine 
parts in ten of the people of that province. Amongst 
other things, it is remarkable, that when Philip the 
Second of Spain gave Sienna to the Duke of Flor- 
ence, his embassador then at Rome sent him word 
that he had given away more than 650,000 subjects; 
and it is not believed there are now 20,000 souls inhab- 
iting that city and territory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, 
Cortona, and other towns, that were then good and 
populous, are in the like proportion, diminished, and 
Florence more than any. When that city had been 
long troubled with seditions, tumults, and wars, for 
the most part unprosperous, they still retained such 
strength, that when Charles VIII. of France, being 
admitted as a friend with his whole army, which 
soon after conquered the kingdom of Naples, 
thought to master them, the people, taking arms, 
struck such a terror into him, that he was glad to 
depart upon such conditions as they thought fit to 
impose. Machiavel reports, that in that time Flor- 
ence alone, with the Val d'Arno, a small territory 
belonging to that city, could, in a few hours, by the 
sound of a bell, bring together 135,000 well-armed 
men; whereas now tliat city, with all the others in 
that province, are brought to such despicable weak- 
ness, emptiness, poverty, and baseness, that they can 
neither resist the oppressions of their own prir,ce,nor 
defend him or themselves if they were assaulted by 
a foreign enemy. The people are dispersed or de- 
stroyed, and the best families sent to seek habita- 
tions in Venice, Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lucca. 
This is not the effect of war or pestilence : they 
enjoy a perfect peace, and suffer no other plague 
than the government they are under."* From the 
usurper Cosmo down to the imbecile Gaston, we 
look in vain for any of those unmixed qualities 
which should raise a patriot to the command of 
his fellow-citizens. The Grand Dukes, and par- 
ticularly the third Cosmo, had operated so entire a 
change in the Tuscan character, that the candid 
Florentines, in excuse for some imperfections in 
the philanthropic system of Leopold, are obliged 
to confess that the sovereign was the only liberal 
man in his dominions. Yet that excellent prince 
himself had no other notion of a national assembly, 
than of a body to represent the wants and wishes, 
not the will, of the people. 



XXIII. BATTLE OF THRASIMENE. 

"yi« earthquake reeled unheededly away." 
Stanza Ixiii. line 5. 

"And such was their mutual animosity, so intent 
were they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which 
overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy, 
which turned the course of rapid streams, poured 
back the sea upon the rivers, and tore down the verj' 
mountains, was not felt by one of the combatants." ^ 
Such is the description of Livy. It may be doubted 



* On Government, chap. ii. sect. x.wi. p. 208, 
edit. 1 751. Sidney is together with Locke and 
Hoadley, one of Mr. Hume's " despicable "writers. 

5 " Tantusque fuit ardor armorum, adeo intentus 
pugnae animus, ut sum terrae motum qui multarum 
urbium Italiae magnas partes prostravit, avfirtitque 
cursu rapidos amnes, mare flumiuibus invexit, mon- 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH. 



365 



whether modern tactics would admit of such an ab- 
straction. 

The site of the battk of Thrasimene is not to be 
mistaken- The traveller from the vilkige under 
Cortona to Casa di Piano, the next stage on the 
way to Rome, has for the first two or three miles, 
around him, but more particularly to the right, that 
flat land which Hannibal laid waste in order to in- 
duce the Consul Flaminius to move from Arezzo. 
On his lel't, and in front of him, is a ridge of hills 
bending down towards the lake of Thrasimene, 
called by Livy " monies Cortonenses," and now 
named the Gualandra. These hills he approaches 
at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries pretend to 
have been so denominated from the bones found 
there: but there have been no bones found there, 
and the battle was fought on the other side of the 
hill. From Ossaja the road begins to rise a little, 
but does not pass into the roots of the mountains 
until the sixty-se^^enth milestone from Florence. 
The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, and 
continues for twenty minutes. The lake is soon 
seen below on the right, with Borghetto, a round 
tower, close upon -the water; and the undulating 
hills partially covered with wood, amongst v/hich 
the road winds, sink by degrees into the marshes 
near to this tower. Lower than the road, down to 
the right amidst these woody hillocks, Hannibal 
placed his horse,i in the jaws of, or rather above, 
the pass, which was between the lake and the pres- 
ent road, and most probably close to Borghetto, just 
under the lowest of the " tumuli."^ On a summit 
to the left, above the road, is an old circular ruin, 
which the peasants call " the Tower of Hannibal 
the Carthaginian." Arrived at the highest point 
of the road, the traveller has a partial view of the 
fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he de- 
scends the Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a 
vale inclosed to the left, and in front, and behind 
him by the Gualandra hills, bending round in a seg- 
ment larger than a semicircle, and running down at 
each end to the lake, which obliques to the right 
and forms the chord of this mountain arc. The 
position cannot be guessed at from the plains of 
Cortona, nor appears to be so completely inclosed 
unless to one who is fairly within the hills. It then, 
indeed, appears " a place made as it were on pur- 
pose for a snare," locics iiisidiis iiatiis. " Bor- 
ghetto is then found to stand in a narrow marshy 
pass close to the hill, and to the lake, whilst there is 
no other outlet at tlie opposite turn of the moun- 
tains than through the little town of Passlgnano, 
which is pushed into the water by the foot of a high 
rocky acclivity."^ There is a woody eminence 
branching down from the mountains into the upper 
end of the plain nearer to the side of Passignano, 
and on this stands a white village called Torre. 
Polybius seems to allude to this eminence as the 
one on which Hannibal encamped, and drew out his 
heavy-armed Africans and Spaniards in a conspicu- 
ous position.* From this spot he despatched his 



tes lapsu ingenti proruit, nemo pugnantium Sansc- 
rit. " Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap. v. 

1 " Equites ad ipsas fauces saltus tumulis apte 
tegentibus locat." T. Livii, lib. xxii. cap. iv. 

^ " Ubi maxima monies Cortonenses Thrasime- 
nus subit." T. Livii, lib. xxii. cap. iv. 

^ " Inde coUes assurgunt." Ibid. 

* Tbv [i.kv Kara TrpocrajTroi' T»js Tropeias Ao^of 
avTGS (careAa/SeTO /cai toO? At'/Sua? koI tovs 'I^vjpa? 



Balearic and light-armed troops round through the 
Gualandra heights to the right, so as to arrive un- 
seen and form an ambush amongst the broken 
acclivities which the road nuw passes, and to be 
ready to act upon the left flank and above the 
enemy, \^iilst the horse shut up the pass behind. 
Flaminius came to the lake near Borghetto at sun- 
set; and, without sending any spies before him, 
marched through the pass the next morning before 
the day had quite broken, so that he perceived 
nothing of the horse and light troops above and 
about him, and saw only the heavy-armed Cartha- 
ginians in front on the hill of Torre.-'' The coi.sul 
began to draw out his army in the flat, and in the 
mean time the horse in ambush occupied the pass 
behind him at Borghetto. Thus the Romans were 
completely inclosed, having the lake on the right, 
the main army on the hill of Torre in front, the 
Gualandra hills filled with the light-armed on their 
left flank, and being prevented from receding by the 
cavalry, who, the further they advanced, stopped up 
all the outlets in the rear. A fog rising from the 
lake now spread itself over the army of the consiil, 
but the high lands were in the sunshine, and all the 
different corps in ambush looked towards the hill of 
Torre for tlie order of attack. Hannibal gave the 
signal, and moved down from his post on the height. 
At the same moment all his troops on the eminences 
behind and in the flank of Flaminius rushed for- 
wards as it were with one accord into the plain. 
The Romans, who were forming their array in the 
mist, suddenly heard the shouts of the enemy 
amongst them, on every side, and before they 
could fall into their ranks, or draw their swords, 
or see by whom they were attacked, felt at once 
that they were surrounded and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the 
Gualandra into the lake. The traveller crosses the 
first of these at about a mile after he comes into 
the plain, and this divides the Tuscan from the 
Papal territories. The second, about a quarter of 
a mile further on, is called "the bloody rivulet; " 
and the peasants point out an open spot to the left 
between the " Sanguinetto," and the hills, which, 
they say, was the principal scene of .slaughter. Tne 
other part of the plain is covered with thick-set 
olive-trees in corn grounds, and is nowhere quite 
level, except near the edge of the lake. It is, in- 
deed, most probable that the battle was fought near 
this end of the valley, for the six thousand Romans, 
who, at the beginning of the action, broke through 
the enemy, escaped to the summit of an eminence 
which must have been in this quarter, otherwise 
they would have had to traverse the wliole plain, 
and to pierce through the main army of Hannibal. 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours; 
but the death of Flaminius was the signal for a gen- 
eral dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then bur.->t 
in upon the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about 
Borghetto, but chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto 
and the passes of the Gualandra, were strewed with 
dead. Near some old walls on a bleak ridge to the 



cap. 83. The account in Polybius is not so easily 
reconcilable with present appearances as that in 
Livy : he talks of hills to tlie right and left of the 
pass and valley; but when Flaminius entered he 
had the lake at the right of both. 

^ " A tergo et super caput decepere insidiae," T 
Liv. etc. 



566 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



left above the rivulet many human bones have been 
repeatedly found, and this has confirmed the pre- 
tensions and the name of the " stream of blood." 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north 
some painter is the usual genius of the place, and 
the foreign Julio Romano more than divides Mantua 
with her native Virgil. i To the south we hear of 
Roman names. Near Thrasimene tradition is still 
faithful to the fame of an enemy, and Hannibal the 
Carthaginian is the only ancient name remembered 
on the banks of the Perugian lake. Flaminius is 
unknown; but the postilions on that road have been 
taught to show the very spot where // Console 
Romano was slain. Of all who fought and fell in 
the battle of Thrasimene, the historian himself has, 
besides the generals and Maharbal, preserved indeed 
only a single name. You overtake the Cartha- 
ginian again on the same road to Rome. The anti- 
quary, that is, the hostler of the posthouse at 
Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the victo- 
rious enemy, and shows you the gate still called 
Porta di Annibale. It is hardly worth while to 
remark that a French travel writer, well known by 
the name of the President Dupaty, saw Thrasimene 
in the lake of Bolsena, which lay conveniently on 
his way from Sienna to Rome. 



XXIV. STATUE OF POMPEY. 

" And thou, dread stati4e ! still existent in 
The austerestform of naked majesty.'''' 
Stanza Ixxxvii. lines i and 2. 

The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
already been recorded by the historian of the Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found 
It in the memorials of Flaminius Vacca; and it may 
be added to his mention of it, that Pope Julius III, 
gave the contending owners five hundred crowns 
for the statue, and presented it to Cardinal Capo di 
Ferro, who had prevented the judgment of Solomon 
from being executed upon the image. In a more 
civilized age this statue was exposed to an actual 
operation; for the French, who acted the Brutus of 
Voltaire in the Coliseum, resolved that their Caesar 
should fall at the base of that Pompey, which was 
supposed to have been sprinkled with the blood of 
the original dictator. The nine-foot hero was there- 
fore removed to the arena of the amphitheatre, and, 
to facilitate its transport, suffered the temporary 
amputation of its right arm. The republican trage- 
dians had to plead that the arm was a restoration: 
bat their accusers do not believe that the integrity 
of the statue would have protected it. The love of 
finding every coincidence has discovered the true 
Csesareaa ichor in a stain near the right knee; but 
colder criticism has rejected not only the blood, but 
the portrait, and assigned the globe of power rather 
to the first of the emperors than to the last of the 
republican masters of Rome. Winkelmann^ is loth 



1 About the middle of the twelfth century the 
coins of Mantua bore on one side the image and 
figure ©f Virgil. Zecca d' Italia, pi. xvii. i. 6. 
Voyage dans le Milanais, etc. par A. Z. Millin, toni. 
ii. p. 294, Paris, 1S17. 

- Storia delle Arti, etc. lib, ix. cap. i. p. 321, 322, 
torn, ii, 



to allow an heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but 
the Grimani Agrippa, a contemporary almost, 
heroic; and naked Roman figures were only very 
rare, not absolutely forbidden. The face accords 
much better with the " hominem integrum et cas 
tum et gravem," ^ than with any of the busts of 
Augustus, and is too stern for him who was beauti- 
ful, says Suetonius, at all periods of his life. The 
pretended likeness to Alexander the Great cannot 
be discerned, but the traits resemble the medal of j 
Pompey.'' The objectionable globe may not have | 
been an ill applied flattery to him who found Asia t 
Minor the boundary, and left it the centre of the i 
Roman empire. It seems that Winkelm;nin has 
made a mistake in thinking that no proof of the ! 
identity of this statue with that which received the \ 
bloody sacrifice can be derived from the spot whert 
it was discovered.-'' Flaminius Vacca says sotto una 1 
cantina, and this cantina is known to have been ir 
the Vicolo de' Leutari, near the Cancellaria; a n 
position corresponding exactly to that of the Janus '| 
before the basilica of Pompey's theatre, to which 1 
Augustus transferred the statue after the curia was 
either burnt or taken down." Part of the Pompeian ; 
shade, ^ the portico, existed in the beginning of the 
XVth century, and the atrium was still called 
Satritm. So says Blondus.* At all events, so 1 
imposing is the stern majesty of the statue, and so 
memorable is the story, that the play of the imagi- 
nation leaves no room for the exercise of the judg- 
ment, and the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates on the 
spectator with an effect not less powerful than truth. 



XXV. THE BRONZE WOLF. 

"And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of 
■"'"■"^ • Stanza l.xxxviii. line 1. 

Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded 
most probably with images of the foster-mother of 
her founder; but there were two she-wolves of 
whom history makes particular mention. One 
of these, of brass in ancient work, was seen by 
Dionysius '-' at the temple of Romulus, under the 
Palatine, and is universally believed to be that men- 
tioned by the Latin historian, as having been made 
from the money collected by a fine on usurers, and 
as standing under the Ruminal fig-tree. '" The other 
was that which Cicero " has celebrated both in prose 



3 Cicer. Epist. ad Atticum, xi. 6. 

* Published by Causeus, in his Museum Romanum. 
5 Storia delle Arti, etc. lib. ix. cap. i. p. 321, 322, 

tom. ii. 

•5 Sueton. in vit. August, cap. 31, and in vit. C. J. 
Csesar. cap. 88. Appian says it was burnt down. 
See a note of Pitiscus to Suetonius, p. 324. 

^ " Tu modo Pompeia lentus spatiare sub umbra." 
Ovid. Art. Am. 267. 

* Roma Instaurata, lib. ii. fo. 31. 

9 XaAfcea 7roir/jui,aTa TraAaia? ipyaala^. Antiq. 
Rom. lib. I, c. 79. 

'" " Ad ficum Ruminalem simulacra infantium 
conditorum urbis sub uberibus lupse posuerunt." 
Liv. Hist. lib. x. cap. xxiii. This was in the year 
u.c. 455 or 457. 

1^ " Turn statua Nattae, tum simulacrsi Deorum, 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH 



367 



and verse, and which the historian Dion also records 
as having suffered the same accident as is alluded 
to by the orator.' The question agitated by the 
antiquaries is, whether the wolf now in the Conser- 
vators' Palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, or 
that of Cicero, or whether it is neither one nor tiie 
other. The earlier writers differ as much as the 
moderns: Lucius Faunus- says, that it is the one 
alluded to by both, which is impossible, and also by 
Virgil, which may be. Fulvius Ursinus-'' calls it 
the wolf of Dionysius, and Marlianus'* talks of it as 
the one mentioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius 
tremblingly assents.^ Nardini is inclined to sup- 



Romulusque et Remus cum altrice bellua vi ful- 
minii icti conciderunt." De Divinat. ii. 20. 
" Tactus est ille etiam qui banc urbem condidit 
Romulus, quern inauratum in Capitolio parvum 
atque lectentem, iiberibus lupinis inhiantem fuisse 
meministis." In Catilin. iii. 8. 
" Hie silvestris erat Romani nominis altrix 
Martia, qua; parvos Mavortis semine natos 
Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigabat; 
Quae tum cum pueris flammato fulminis ictu 
Concidit, atque avulsa pedum vestigia liquit." 
De Consulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. xii.) 
^ 'E^'' Yap tco Ka7rr)ToAia> a;'6ptai'7es Te ttoAAoi 
VTTO K€pavi'd)v crvviXixiVivQ-q(ja.v , xai. ayaA/ixa-a aAAa 
re, (cai Atbs ctti kiovos iSpu.aeVor, ei/cajf re Tis 
KvKO.ivr\<; avf re r<Z 'Puj/ia> Ka'i (xvi' tw 'Pw/utvAw 
iSpvfxeyrj eireo-rj. Dion. Hist. lib. xxxvii. p. 37, 
edit. Rob. Steph. 1548. He goes on to mention 
that the letters of the columns on wliich the laws 
were written were liquefied and become aij.v&pd. 
All that the Romans did was to erect a large statue 
to Jupiter, looking towards the east : no mention is 
afterwards made of the wolf. This happened in 
A.u.c. 689. The Abate Fea, in noticing this pas- 
sage of Dion (Storia delle Arti, etc. tom. i. p. 202, 
note X.), says, Nonosiaute, aggiunge Dione, che 
fosse beiifennata (the wolf) ; by which it is clear 
the Abate translated the Xylandro-Leunclavian 
version, which puts qnavivis stabilita for the 
original iSpii(u.ei'-»), a word that does not mean beti 
feriiiata, but only raised, as may be distinctly 
seen from another passage of the same Dion: 
'HjSovArjflij \x.kv ovv 6 ' Aypiwnai; Koi rbv AvyovcrTov 
euravQa i^pvaai. Hist. lib. Ivi. Dion says that 
Agrippa " wished to raise a statue of Augustus in 
the Pantheon." 

* " In eadem portion senea lupa, cujus uberibus 
Romulus ac Remus lactentes inhiant, conspicitur: 
de hac Cicero et Virgilius semper intellexere. 
Livius hoc signum ab ^45dilibus ex pecimiis quibus 
mulctati essent foeneratores, positiim innuit. Antea 
in Comitiis ad Ficum Ruminalem, quo loco pueri 
fuerant expositi locatum pro certo est." Luc. 
Fauni de Antiq. Urb. Rom. lib. ii. cap. vii. ap. 
Sallcngr2, tom. i. p. 217. In his xviith chapter he 
repeats that the statues were there, but not that 
they v/&xe/o!ind there. 

^ Ap. Nardini, Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 

* Marliani Urb. Rom. Topograph, lib. ii. cap. ix. 
He mentions another wolf and twins in the Vatican, 
lib. v. cap. xxi. 

s " Non desunt qui banc ipsam esse putent, quam 
adpinximus, qusc e comitio in Basilicam Lateranam, 
cum nonnuilis aliis antiquitatum reliquiis, atque 
bine in Capitolium postea relata sit, quamvis Mar- 



pose it may be one of the many wolves preserved 
m ancient Rome; but of the two rather bends to 
the Ciceronian statue.** Montfaucon^ mentions it 
as a point without doubt. Of the latter writers the 
decisive Winkelmann** proclaims it as having been 
found at the church of Saint Theodore, where, or 
near where, was the temple of Romulus, and con- 
sequently makes it the wolf of Dionysius. His 
authority is Lucius Faunus, who, however, only 
says that it 7vas placed, woi foKfid, at the Ficus 
Ruminalis, by the Comitium, by which he does not 
seem to allude to the church of Saint Theodore. 
Rycqviius was the first to make the mistake, and 
Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 

Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and 
says he had heard the wolf with the twins was 
found ^ near the arch of Septimius Severus. The 
commentator on Winkelmann is of the same opin- 
ion with that learned person, and is incensed at 
Nardini for not having remarked that Cicero, in 
speaking of the wolf struck with lightning in the 
Capitol, makes use of the past tense. But, with 
the Abate's leave, Nardini does not positively as- 
sert the statue to be that mentioned by Cicero, and, 
if he had, the assumption would not perhaps have 
been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate him- 
self is obliged to own that there are marks very 
like the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of 
the present wolf; and, to get rid of this, adds, that 
the wolf seen by Dionysius might have been also 
struck by lightning, or otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems 
to particularize the Romulus and the Remus, es- 
pecially the first, which his audience remembered 
to have been in the Capitol, as being struck with 
lightning. In his verses he records that the twins 
and wolf both fell, and that the latter left behind 
the marks of her feet. Cicero does not say that 
the wolf was consumed: and Dion only mentions 
that it fell down, without alluding, as the Abate has 
made him, to the force of the blow, or the firmness 
with which it had been fixed. The whole strength, 
therefore, of the Abate's argument hangs upon the 
past tense; which, however, may be somewhat 
diminished by remarking that the phrase only 
shows that the statue was not then standing in its 
former position. Winkelmann has observed, that 
the present twins are modern; and it is equally 
clear that there are marks of gilding on the wolf, 



lianus antiquam Capitolinam esse maluit a Tullio 
descriptam, cuiiit in re nimis dubia, trepide adsen- 
timur." Just. Rycquii de Capit. Roman. Comra. 
cap. xxiv. p. 250, edit. Lugd. Bat. 1696. 

•^ Nardini, Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 

' " Lupa hodieque in capitolinis prostat aedibus, 
cum vestigio fulminis quo ictam narrat Cicero." 
Diarium Italic, tom. i. p. 174. 

» Storia delle Arti, etc. lib. iii. cap. iii. § ii. note 10. 
Winkelmann has made a strange blunder in a note, 
by saying the Ciceronian wolf was not in the Capi- 
tol, and that Dion was wrong in saying so. 

^ " Intesi dire, che 1' Ercolo di bronzo, che oggi 
si trova nella sala di Campidoglio, fu trovato nel 
foro Romano appresso 1' arco di Settimio : e vi fu 
trovata anche la lupa di bronzo che allata Roniolo 
e Remo, e sta nella Loggia de Conservatori." 
Flam. Vacca, Memorie, num. iii. p. i. ap. Mont- 
faucon, Diar. Ital, torn, i, . 



568 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



which might therefore be supposed to make part of j 
the ancient group. It is known that the sacred \ 
images of the Capitol were not destroyed when ! 
injured by time or accident, but were put into j 
certain under-ground depositaries, called /rt7/w^<^.' I 
It may be tliought pos^ible that the wollTiad been 
so deposited, and had been replaced in some con- 
spicuous situation when the Capitol was rebuilt by 
Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentioning his au- 
thorit>% tells that it was transferred from tUe Comi- 
tium to the Lateran, and thence brought to the 
Capitol. If it was found near the arch of Severus, 
it may have been one of the images which Orosius- 
says was thrown down in the Forum by lightning 
when Alaric took the city. That it is of very high 
antiquity the workmanship is a decisive proof; and 
that circumstance induced Winkelmann to believe 
it the wolf of Dionysius. The Capitoline wolf, 
however, may have been of the same early date as 
that at the temple of Romulus. Lactantius-^ as- 
serts that in his time the Romans worshipped a 
wolf ; and it is known that the Lupercalia held out 
to a very late period* after every other observance 
of the ancient superstition had totally expired. 
This may account for the preservation of the an- 
cient image longer than the other early symbols of 
Paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark, that 
the wolf was a Roman symbol, but that the wor- 
ship of that symbol is an inference drawn by the 
zeal of Lactantius. The early Christian writers 
are not to be trusted in the charges which they 
make against the Pagans. Eusebius accused the 
Romans to their faces of worshipping Simon 
Magus, and raising a statue to him in the island of 
the Tyber. The Romans had probably never heard 
of such a person before who came, however, to 
play a considerable, though scandalous part in the 
church history, and has left several tokens of his 
aerial combat with St. Peter at Rome; notwith- 
standing that an inscription found in this very 
island of the Tyber showed the Simon Magus of 
Eusebius to be a certain indigenal god called Semo 
Sangus or Fidius.'^ 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome 
had been abandoned, it was thought expedient to 
humor the habits of the good matrons of the city. 



1 Luc. Faun. ibid. 

- See note to stanza LXXX. in " Historical 
Illustrations." 

^ " Romuli nutrix Lupa honoribus est affecta 
divinis, et ferrem, si animal ipsum fuisset, cujus 
figuram gerit." Lactant. de Falsa Religione, lib. 
i. cap. XX. p. loi, edit, varior. 1660; that is to say, 
he would rather adore a wolf than a prostitute. 
His commentator has observed that the opinion of 
Livy concerning Laurentia being figured in this 
wolf was not universal. Strabo thought so. Ryc- 
quius is wrong in saying that Lactantius mentions 
the wolf was in the Capitol. 

* To A.D. 496, " Quis credere possit," says 
Baronius [Ann. Eccles. torn. viii. p. 602, in an. 
496], " viguisse adhuc Romre ad Gelasii tempora, 
qua2 fuere ante exordia urbis allata in Italiam 
Lupercalia? " Gelasius wrote a letter which occu- 
pies four folio pages to Andromachus the senator, 
and others, to show that the rites should be given up. 

•'' Eusebius has these words: «al o.v^(>i6.vti Trap' 
v^lIv ojs (9^e6? TeTt'/urjTat, kv T(p Ti^ept noTaixiZ fie- 
Ta| j TO)!' 6vo yecjivpiov, 6;^a)V iinypa^r]v 'Pw/u.ai'/crjj' 



by sending them with their sick infants to the j 
church of Saint Theodore, as they had before 
carried them to the temple of Romulus.'^ The 
practice is continued to tliis day, and the site of 
the above church seems to be thereby identified 
with that of the temple ; so that if the wolf had 
been really found there, as Winkelmann says, there 
would be no doubt of the present statue being that 
seen by Dionysius.' But Faunus, in saying that 
it was at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is 
only talking of its ancient position as recorded by 
Pliny; and even if he had been remarking where 
it was found, would not have alluded to the church 
of Saint Theodore, but to a verj' different place, near 
which it was then thought the Ficus Ruminalis had 
been, and also the Comitium; that is, the three 
columns by the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice, 
at the corner of the Palatine looking on the Forum. 
It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image 
was actually dug up; * and perhaps, on the whole, 
the marks of the gilding, and of the lightning, are a 
better argument in favor of its being the Ciceronian 
wolf, than any that can be adduced for the contrary 
opinion. At any rate, it is reasonably selected in 
the text of the poem as one of the most interesting 
relics of the ancient city,'* and is certainly the fig- 
ure, if not the very animal to which Virgil alludes 
in his beautiful verses : — 

" Geminos huic ubera circum 
Ludere pendenles pueros, et lambere matrem 
Impavidos: illam tereti cervice reflexam 
Mulcere alternos, et corpora fingere linguS." ^^ 

Tavry]v ^ifxioi'i. Seuj SaycTcu. Eccles. Hist. lib. ii. 
cap. xiii. p. 40. Justin Martyr had told the story 
before; but Baronius himself was obliged to detect 
this fable. See Nardini, Roma Vet. lib. vii. cap. xii. 

>' " In esse gli antichi pontefici per toglier la 
memoria de' giuochi Lupercali istituiti in onore di 
Romolo, introdussero 1' uso di portarvi bambini op- 
pressi de infermit.a occulte, accib si liberino per V 
intercessione di questo santo, come di continuo si 
sperimenta." Rione xii. Ripa, accurata e suc- 
cincta Descrizione, etc. di Roma Moderna, dell' 
Ab. Ridolf. Venuti, 1766. 

' Nardini, lib. v. cap. 11, convicts Pomponius 
Lsetus crassi errorzs, in putting the Ruminal fig- 
tree at the church of Saint Theodore : but as Livy 
says the wolf was at the Ficus Ruminalis, and 
Dionysius at the temple of Romulus, he is obliged 
(cap. iv.) to own that the two were close together, 
as well as the Lupercal cave, shaded, as it were, by 
the fig-tree. 

^ " Ad comitium ficus olim Ruminalis germinabat, 
sub qua lupae rumam, hoc est, mammam, docente 
Varrone, suxerant olim Romulus et Remus; non 
procul a templo hodie D. Marine Liberatricis appel- 
late, ubi forsan inventa nobilis ilia a;nea statiia 
lupse geminos puerulos lactantis, quam hodie in 
Capitolio videmus." Olai Borrichii Antrqua Urbis 
Romanse Facies, cap. x. See also cap. xii. Bor- 
richius wrote after Nardini, in 1687. Ap. Grsev. 
Antiq. Rom. tom. iv. p. 1522. 

'J Donatus, lib. xi. cap. 18, gives a medal repre- 
senting on one side the wolf in the same position as 
that in the Capitol; and on the reverse the wolf with 
the head not reverted. It is of the time of Antoni- 
nus Pius. 

^" N.\\. viii. 631. See Dr. Middleton, in his Let- 
ter from Rome, who inclines to the Ciceronian 
wolf, but without examining the subjegt, 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH. 



369 



XXVI. JULIUS C/ESAR. 

" For the Romati's mind 
Was modelled in a less terrestrial viould." 
Stanza xc. lines 3 and 4. 

It is possible to be a very great man and to be 
still very inferior to Julius Caesar, the most complete 
character, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. 
Nature seems incapable of such extraordinary com- 
binations as composed his versatile capacity, which 
was the wonder even of the Romans themselves. 
The first general — the only triumphant politician — 
inferior to none in eloquence — comparable to any in 
the attainments of wisdom, in an age made up of the 
greatest commanders, statesmen, orators, and philos- 
ophers that ever appeared in the world — an author 
who composed a perfect specimen of military annals 
in his travelling carriage — at one time in a contro- 
versy with Cato, at another writing a treatise on 
punning, and collecting a set of good sayings — 
fighting ' and making love at the same moment, 
and willing to abandon both his empire and his mis- 
tress for a sight of the Fountains of the Nile. Such 
did Julius Caasar appear to his- contemporaries and 
to those of the subsequent ages who were the most 
inclined to deplore and execrate his fatal genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his 
surpassing glory, or with his magnanimous, his 
amiable qualities, as to forget the decision of his 
impartial countrymen : — 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.^ 



XXVII. EGERIA. 

" Egeria! sweet creation 0/ some heart 

Which foutid no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast.'''' 

Stanza cxv. lines i, 2, and 3. 

The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca 
would incline us to believe in the claims of the 



* In his tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled 
with the blood of Pharsalia in the arms of Cleopatra. 

" Sanguine Thessalicae cladis perfusus adulter 
Admisit Venerem curis, et miscuit armis." 

After feasting with his mistress, he sits up all 
night to converse with the Egj'ptipn sages, and tells 
Achoreus, ,, „ . ... • , ,• 

hpes sit mini certa videndi 
Niliacos fontes, bellum civile relinquam." 
" Sic velut in tuta securi pace trahebant 
Noctis iter mediae." 

Immediately afterwards, he is fighting again, and 
defending every position. 

" Sed adest defensor ubique 
Caesar et hos aditu gladiis, hos ignibus arcet. 

caeca nocte carinis 

Insiluit Caesar, semper feliciter usus 
Praecipiti cursu bellorum et tempore rapto." 

* "Jure caesus existimetur,"says Suetonius, after 
a fair estimation of his character, and making use 
of a phrase which was a formtila in Livy's time. 
*' Maelium jure caesum pronuntiavit, etiain si regni 



Egerian grotto. ^ He assures us that he saw an 
inscription in the pavement, stating that the foun- 
tain was that of Egeria, dedicated to the nymphs. 
'J'he inscription is not there at this day; but Mont- 
faucon quotes two lines* of Ovid from a stone in the 
Villa Giustiniani, whicii he seems to think had been 
brought from the same grotto. 

This grotto and valley were formerly frequented 
in summer, and particularly the first Sunday in 
Mj\y, by the modern Romans, who attached a sa- 
lubrious quality to the fountain which trickles from 
an orifice at the bottom of the vault, and, overflow- 
ing the little pools, creeps down the matted grass 
into the brook below. The brook is the Ovidian 
Almo, whose name and qualities are lost in the 
modern Aquataccio. The valley itself is called 
Valle di Caftarelli, from the dukes of that name who 
made over their fountain to the Pallavicini, with 
sixty ritbhia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the 
Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
Umbritius, notwithstanding the generality of his 
commentators have supposed the descent of the 
satirist and his friend to have been into the Arician 
grove, where the nymph met Hippolitus, and where 
she was more peculiarly worshipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban 
hill, fifteen miles distant, would be too considerable, 
unless we were to believe in the wild conjecture of 
Vossius, who makes that gate travel from its pres- 
ent station, where he pretends it was during the 
reign of the Kings, as far as the Arician grove, and 
then makes it recede to its old site with the shrink- 
ing city. 5 The tufo, or pumice, which the poet 
prefers to marble, is the substance composing the 
bank in which the grotto is sunk. 

The modern topographers'' find in the grotto the 
statue of the nymph, and nine niches for the Muses; 



crimine insons fuerit:" [lib. iv. cap. 15,] and which 
was continued in the legal judgments pronounced 
in justifiable homicides, such as killing house- 
breakers. See Sueton. in Vit. C. J. Caesar, with 
the commentary of Pitiscus, p. 184. 

3 " Poco lontano dal detto luogo si scende ad un 
casaletto, del quale ne sono padroni li Caffarelli, 
che con questo nome e chiamato il luogo; vi e una 
fontana sotto una gran volta antica, che al presente 
sigode,e i Romani vi vanno Testate a ricrearsi; nel 
pavimento di essa fonte si egge in un epitaffio essere 
quella la fonte di Egeria, dedicata alle ninfe, e 
questa, dice I'epitaffio, essere la medesima fonte in 
cui fu convertita." Memorie, etc. ap. Nardini, p. 
13. He does not give the inscription. 

* " In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadra- 
tus solidus, in quo sculpta haec duo Ovidii carmina 
sunt: — 
' iEgeria est quae praebet aquas, dea grata Camoenis; 

Ilia Numae conjunx consiiiumque fuit.' 
Qui lapis videtur ex eodem Egeriae fonte, aut ejus 
vicinia, isthuc comportatus." Diarium Italic, p. 
153- 

5 De Magnit. ^Vet. Rom. ap. Graev. Ant. Rom. 
torn. iv. p. 1507. 

•5 Echinard, Descrizione di Roma e dell' Agro 
Romano, corretto dall' Abate Venuti, in Roma, 
1750. They believe in the grotto and nymph. 
" Simulacro di questo fonte, essendovi sculpite le 
acque a pie di esse" 



m 



CniLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



and a late traveller' has discovered that the cave is 
restored to that simplicity which the poet regretted 
had been exchanged lor injudicious ornament. 
But the headless statue is palpably rather a male 
than a nymph, and has none of the attributes as- 
cribed to it at present visible. The nine Muses 
could hardly have stood in six niches; and Juvenal 
certainly does not allude to any individual cave.- 
Nothing can be collected from the satirist but that 
somewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in 
which it was supposed Numa held nightly consul- 
tations with his nymph, and where there was a grove 
and a sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated 
to the Muses; and that from this spot there was a 
descent into the valley of Egeria, where were sev- 
eral artificial caves. It is clear that the statues of 
the Muses made no part of the decoration which the 
satirist thought misplaced in these caves; for he 
expressly assigns other fanes (delubra) to these 
divinities above the valley, and moreover tells us 
that tiiey had been ejected to make room for the 
Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called that of 
Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the 
Muses, and Nardini'^ places them in a poplar 
grove, which was in his time above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, 
that the cave now shown may be one of the " arti- 
ficial caverns," of which, indeed, there is another 
a little way higher up the valley, under a tuft of 
alder bushes: but a single grotto of Egeria is a 
mere modern invention, grafted upon the applica- 
tion of ihe epithet Ejjerian to these nymphea in 
general, and which might send us to look for the 
haunts of Numa upon the banks of the Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mis- 
translation by his acquaintance with Pope: he care- 
fully preserves the correct plural — 

" Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
The Egerian grots : oh, how unlike the true! " 

The valley abounds with springs,* and over these 
springs, which the Muses might haunt from their 
neighboring groves, Egeria presided: hence she 
was said to supply them with water; and she 
was the nymph of the grottos through which the 
fountains were taught to flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of 
the Egerian valley have received names at will, 
which have been changed at will. Venuti^'owns he 
can see no traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, 



' Classical Tour, chap. vi. p. 217, vol. ii. 

2 " Substitit ad veteres arcus, madidamque Cap- 

enam; 
Hie ubi nqcturnse Numa constituebat amicae, 
Nunc sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur 
Judseis, quorum cophinus foenumque supellex. 
Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa 

est 
Arbor, et ejectis mendicat silva Camoenis. 
In vallem Egeria; descendimus, et speluncas 
Dissimiles veris: quanto prsestantius esset 
Numen aquas, viridi si margine clauderet 

undas 
Herba, nee ingenuum violarent marmora 

tophum." — Sat. III. 

3 Lib. iii. cap. iii. 

* " Undique e solo aquse scaturiunt." Nardini, 
lib. iii. cap. iii. 

^ Echinard, etc. Cic. cit. pp. 297, 298. 



Juno, Venus, and Diana, which Nardini found, or 
hoped to find. The mutatorium of Caracalla's cir- 
cus, the temple of Honor and Virtue, the temple 
of Bacchus, and, above all, the temple of the god 
Rediculus, are the antiquaries' despair. j 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of I 
that Emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which |: 
the reverse shows a circus, supposed, however, by ji 
some to represent the Circus Maximus. It gives a ! 
very good idea of that place of exercise. The soil | 
has been but little raised, if we may judge from the 
small cellular structure at the end of the Spina, 
which was probably the chapel of the god Census. 
This cell is half beneath the soil, as it must have I 
been in the circus itself; for Dionysius'"' could not 
be persuaded to believe that this divinity was the 
Roman Neptune, because his altar was under ground, i 



XXVIII. THE ROMAN NEMESIS. 

" Great N'etnesis/ 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long." 
^Stanza cxxxii. lines 2 and 3. 

We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a 
warning received in a dream,' counterfeited, once 
a year, the beggar, sitting before the gate of his 
palace with his hand hollowed and stretched out 
for charity. A statue formerly in the Villa Bor- 
ghese, and which should be now at Paris, repre- 
sents the Emperor in that posture of supplication. 
The object of this self-degradation was the appease- 
ment of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on good 
fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors 
were also reminded by certain symbols attached to 
their cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip 
and the crotalo, which were discovered in the 
Nemesis of the Vatican. The attitude of beggary 
made the above statue pass for that of Belisarius: 
and until the criticism of Winkelmann * had recti- 
fied the mistake, one fiction was called in to sup- 
port another. It was the same fear of the sudden 
termination of prosperity that made Amasis king 
of Egypt warn his friend Polycrates of Samos, that 
the gods loved those whose lives were chequered 
with good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was sup- 
posed to lie in wait particularly for the prudent; 
that is, for those whose caution rendered them 
accessible only to mere accidents: and her first 
altar was raised on the banks of the Phyrgian 
.iEsepus by Adrastus, probably the prince of that 
name who killed the son of Croesus by mistake. 
Hence the goddess was called Adrastea.*^ 

'^ Antiq. Rom. lib. ii. cap. xxxi. 

■^ Sueton. in Vit. Augusti, cap. 91, Casaubon, in 
the note, refers to Plutarch's lives of Camillus and 
iEmilius Paulus, and also to his apophthegms, for 
the character of this deity. The hollowed hand 
was reckoned the last degree of degradation; and 
when the dead body of the praefect Rufinus was 
borne about in triumph by the people, the indignity 
was increased by putting his hand in that position. 

8 Storia delle Arti, etc. lib. xii. III. tom. ii. p. 422. 
Visconti calls the statue, however, a Cybele. It is 
given in the Museo Pio-Clement. tom. i. par. 40. 
The Abate Fea (Spiegazione dei Rami. Storia, etc, 
tom. iii. p. 51^,) cnlls it a Chrisippus. 

9 Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastea. 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THL FOURTH. 



37i 



The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august : 
there was a temple to her in tlie Palatine under the 
name of Rhamnusia: ' so groat, indeed, was the 
propensity of the ancients to trust to the revolu- 
tion of events, and to believe in the divinity of 
Fortune, that in the same Palatine there was a 
temple to the Fortune of the day.- This is tlie 
last superstition which retains its hold over the 
human heart; and, from concentrating in one ob- 
ject the credulity so natural to man, has always 
appeared strongest in those unembarrassed by other 
articles of belief. The antiquaries have supposed 
this goddess to be synonymous with Fortune and 
with Fate: but it was in her vindictive quality 
that she was worshipped under the name of Neme- 
sis. 



XXIX. GLADIATORS. 

" He, their sire. 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday." 

Stanza cxli. lines 6 and 7. 

Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and 
voluntary; and were supplied from several condi- 
tions; — from slaves sold for that purpose; from 
culprits; from barbarian captives either taken in 
war, and, after being led in triumph, set apart for 
the games, or those seized and condemned as 
rebels: also from free citizens, some fighting for 
hire {anctoraii) , others from a depraved ambi- 
tion: at last even knights and senators were ex- 
hibited, — a disgrace of which the first tyrant was 
naturally the first inventor. ^ In the end, dwarfs, 
and even women, fought; an enormity prohibited 
by Severus. Of these the most to be pitied un- 
doubtedly were the barbarian captives; and to this 
species a Christian writer* justly applies the epi- 
thet " innocent," to distinguish them from the 
professional gladiators. Aurelian and Claudius 
supplied great numbers of these unfortunate vic- 
tims; the one after his triumph, and the other on 
the pretext of a rebellion. ^ No war, says Lipsius,^ 



1 It is enumerated by the regionary Victor. 

2 Fortunse hujusce diei. Cicero mentions her, 
de Legib. lib. ii. 

DEAE NEMESI 

SIVE FORTUNAE 

PISTORIVS 

RVGIANVS 

V. C. LEG AT. 

LEG. XIII. G. 

CORD. 

See Questiones Romanae, etc. ap. Grsev. Antiq. 
Roman, torn. v. p. 942. See also Muratori, Nov. 
Thesaur. Inscrip. ' Vet. torn. i. pp. 88, 89, where 
there are three Latin and one Greek inscription to 
Nemesis, and others to Fate. 

3 Julius Caesar, who rose by the fall of the aris- 
tocracy, brought Furius Leptinus and A. Calenus 
upon the arena. 

* Tertullian, " certe quidem et innocentes gladia- 
tores in ludum veniunt, et voluptatis publicse hos- 
tiae fiant." Just. Lips. Saturn. Sermon, lib. ii. 
cap. iii. 

5 Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel. and in vit. Claud, ibid. 

^ " Credo, irnmo scio, nullum bellum tantam 
cladem vastitiemque generi humano intulisse, quam 



was over so destructive to the human race as these 
sports. In spite of the laws of Constantine and 
Constans, gladiatorial shows survived the old es- 
tablished religion more than seventy years; but 
they owed their final extinction to the courage of a 
Christian. In llie year 404, on the kalends of 
January, they were exhibiting the shows in the 
Flavian amphitheatre before the usual iiimiense 
concourse of people. Almachius, or Telemachus, 
an eastern monk, who had travelled to Rome intent 
on his holy purpose, rushed into the midst of the 
area, and endeavored to separate the combatants. 
The praetor Alypius, a person incredibly attaclied 
to these games, ^ gave instant orders to the gladia- 
tors to slay him; and Telemachus gained the crown 
of martyrdom, and the title of saint, which surely 
has never either before or since been awarded for a 
more noble exploit. Honorius immediately abol- 
ished the shows, which were never afterwards 
revived. The story is told by Theodoret « and Cas- 
siodorus,^ and seems worthy of credit notwithstand- 
ing its place in the Roman martyrology.i^ Besides 
the torrents of blood which flowed at the funerals, 
in the amphitheatres, the circus, the forums, and 
other public places, gladiators were introduced at 
feasts, and tore each other to pieces amidst the 
supper tables, to the great delight and applause of 
the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to sup- 
pose the loss of courage, and the evident degener- 
acy of mankind, to be nearly connected with the 
abolition of these bloody spectacles. 11 



XXX. 



Here, where the Roman vtillions' blame or 

praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 
Stanza cxlii. lines 5 and 6. 

When one gladiator wounded another, he 
shouted, " he has it," " hoc habet," or " habet." 
The wounded combatant dropped his weapon, and 
advancing to the edge of the arena, supplicated the 
spectators. If he had fought well, the people 
saved him; if otherwise, or as they happened to be 
inclined, they turned down their thumbs, and he 



hos ad voluptatem ludos." Just. Lips. ibid. lib. i. 
cap. xii. 

■? Augustinus (lib. vi. Confess, cap. viii.). " Aly- 
pium suum gladiatorii spectaculi inhiatu incredi- 
biliter abreptum," scribit. ib. lib. i. cap. xii. 

8 Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 

9 Cassiod. Tripartita, 1. x. c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 

10 Baronius, ad ann. et in notis ad Martyrol. 
Rom. I. Jan. See — Marangoui, Delle memoric 
sacre e profane dell' Anfiteatro Flavio, p. 25, edit. 
1746. 

11 "Quod? non tu, Lipsi, momentum aliquod 
habuisse censes ad virtutem? Magnum. Tempoia 
nostra, nosque ipsos, videamus. Oppidiun erce 
unum alterumve captum, direptum est: tiimulius 
circa nos, non in nobis; et tamen concidinuis et 
turbamur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per annos medi- 
tata sapientiae studia? ubi ille animus qui possit 
dicere, si fractus illahatiir orb is ?'^ etc. ibid. lib. 
ii. cap. xxv. The prototype of Mr. Windham's 
panegyric on bull-baiting. 



372 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



/as slain. They were occasionally so savage that 
tney were impatient if a combat lasted longer than or- 
dinary without wounds or death. The emperor's pres- 
ence generally saved the vanquished; and it is re- 
corded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, that he 
sent those who supplicated him for life, in a specta- 
cle, at Nicomedia, to ask the people; in other v/ords, 
handed them over to be slain. A similar ceremony 
is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The magis- 
trate presides; and after the horsemen and picca- 
dores have fought the bull, the matadore steps for- 
ward and bows to him for permission to kill the 
animal. If the bull has done his duty by killing 
two or three horses, or a man, which last is rare, 
the people interfere with shouts, the ladies wave 
their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. The 
wounds and death of the horses are accompanied 
with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures^ 
of delight, especially from the female portion of 
the audience, including those of the gentlest blood. 
Every thing depends on habit. The author of 
Childe Harold, the writer of this note, and one or 
two other Englishmen, who have certainly in other 
days borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, dur- 
ing the summer of 1809, in the governor's box at 
the great amphitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite to 
Cadiz. The death of one or two horses completely 
satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman present, ob- 
serving them shudder and look pale, noticed that 
unusual reception of so delightful a sport to some 
young ladies, who stared and smiled, and continued 
their applauses as another horse fell bleeding to 
the ground. One bull killed three horses off_ his 
own horns. He was saved by acclamations, 
which were redoubled when it was known he be- 
longed to a priest. 

An f^nglishman who can be much pleased with 
seeing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot 
bear to look at a horse galloping round an arena 
with his bowels trailing on the ground, and turns 
from the spectacle and the spectators with horror 
and disgust. 



XXXI. THE ALBAN HILL. 

" And afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast, ''^ etc. etc. 

Stanza clxxiv. lines 2, 3, and 4. 

The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unri- 
valled beauty, and from the convent on the highest 
p )int, which has succeeded to the temple of the 
Latian Jupiter, the prospect embraces all the objects 
alkided to ni the cited stanza; the jNIediterranean; 
the whole scene of the latter half of the yEneid, and 
the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber to 
the headland of Circajum and the Cape of Terracina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either 
at the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince 
Lucien Buonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the act- 
ual site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of 
Cicero. At present it has lost something of its 
credit, except for the Domenichinos. Nine monks 
of the Greek order live there, and the adjoining 
villa is a cardinal's summer-house. The other 
villa, called Rufinella, is on the summit of the hill 
above Frascati, and many rich remains of Tuscu- 



lum have been found there, besides seventy-two 
statues of different merit and preservation, and 

seven busts. 

From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, 
embosomed in which lies the long valley of Rustica. 
There are several circumstances which tend to estab- 
lish the identity of this valley with the " Ustica " 
of Horace; and it seems possible that the mosaic 
pavement which the peasants uncover by throwing 
up the earth of a vineyard may belong to his villa. 
Rustica is pronounced short, not according to our 
stress upon — ^^ Usticce aibantis.'^ — It is more 
rational to think that we are wrong, than that the 
inhabitants of this secluded valley have changed 
their tone in this word. The addition of the con- 
sonant prefixed is nothing: yet it is necessary to be 
aware that Rustica may be a modern name which 
the peasants may have caught from the antiquaries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a 
knoll covered with chestnut trees. A stream runs 
down the valley; and although it is not true, as said 
in the guide books, that this stream is called Li- 
cenza, yet there is a village on a rock at the head 
of the valley which is so denominated, and which 
may have taken its name from the Digentia. _Li- 
cenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a peak a little 
way beyond is Civitella, containing 300. On the 
banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up into 
Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the 
villa, is a town called Vicovaro, another favorable 
coincidence with the Varia of the poet. At the 
end of the valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare 
hill, crowned with a litde town called Bardela. At 
the foot of this hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and 
is almost absorbed in a wide sandy bed before it 
reaches the Anio. Nothing can be more fortunate 
for the lines of the poet, whether in a metaphorical 
or direct sense : — 

" Me quotiens reficit gelidus Digentia rivus, 
Quem Mandela bibit rugosus frigore pagus." 

The stream is clear high up the valley, but before 
it reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow 
like a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half 
an hour's walk from the vineyard where the pave- 
ment is shown, does seem to be the site of the fane 
of Vacuna, and an inscription found there tells that 
this temple of the Sabine Victory, was repaired by 
Vespasian. i With these helps, and a position cor- 
responding exactly to every thing which the poet 
has told us of his retreat, we may feel tolerably se- 
cure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called 
Campanile, and by following up the rivulet to the 
pretended Bandusia, you come to the roots of the 
higher motnitain Gennaro. Singularly enough, the 
only spot of ploughed land in the whole valley is on 
the knoll where this Bandusia rises. 

" . . . . tu frigus amabile 
Fessis vomere tauris 
Praebes, et pecori vago." 



1 IMP. C/ESAK VESPASIANVS 

PONTIFEX MAXIiMVS. TRIB. 

POTEST. CENSOR. ^DEM 

VICTORIA. VETVSTATE ILLAPSAM. 

SVA. IMPENSA. RESTITVIT. 



HISTORICAL NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH 



373 



The peasants show another spring near the mosaic 
pavement which they call " Oradina," and which 
flows down tlie hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and 
thence trickles over into the Digentia. 
iiut we must not hope 

" To trace the Muses upwards to their spring," 

by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
search oi" the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange ; 
that any one should have thought Bandusia a foun- 
tain of the Digentia — Horace has not let drop a 
word of it: and this immortal spring has in fact 
been discovered in possession of the holders of 
many good tilings in Italy, the monks. It was at- 
tached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais 
near Venusia, where it was most likely to be found. ^ 
We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller in find- 
ing the occnsio}ial piiie still pendent on the poetic 
villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but 
there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, 
or mistook, for the tree in the ode.- The truth is, 
that the pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, 
a garden tree, and it was not at all likely to be 
found in the craggy acclivities of the valley of Rus- 
tica. Horace probably had one of them in the 
orchard close above his farm, immediately over- 
shadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights at 
some distance from his abode. The tourist may 
have easily supposed himself to have seen this pine 
figured in the above cypresses; for the orange and 
lemon trees which throw such a bloom over his de- 
scription of the royal gardens at Naples, unless 
they have been since displaced, were assuredly 
only acacias and other common garden shrubs.^ | 



XXXII. EUSTACE'S CLASSICAL TOUR. 

The extreme disappointment experienced by 
choosing the Classical Tourist as a guide in Italy 
must be allowed to find vent in a few observations, 
which, it is asserted without fear of contradiction, 
will be confirmed by every one who has selected the 
same conductor through the same countiy. This 
author is in fact one of the most inaccurate, unsat- 
isfactory writers that have in our times attained a 
temporary reputation, and is very seldom to be 
trusted even when he speaks of objects which he 
must be presumed to have seen. His errors, from 
the simple exaggeration to the downright misstate- 
ment, are so frequent as to induce a suspicion that 
he had either never visited the spots described, or 
had trusted to the fidelity of .former writers. In- 
deed, the Classical Tour has every characteristic of 
a mere compilation of former notices, strung to- 
gether upon a ver^f slender thread of personal obser- 
vation, and swelled out by those decorations which 
are so easily supplied by a systematic adoption of 
all the common-places of praise, applied to every 
thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 

' See — Historical Illustrations of the Fourth 
Canto, p. 43. 

- See — Classical Tour, etc. chap. vii. p. 250, 
vol. ii. 

^ " Under our windows, and bordering on the 
beach, is the royal garden, laid out in parterres, and 
walks shaded by rows of orange trees." Classical 
Tour, etc. chap. xi. vol. ii. oct. 365. 



The style which one person thinks cloggy and 
cumbrous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of 
others, and such may experience some salutary 
excitement in ploughing through the periods of the 
Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that 
polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation 
of value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to 
toil up a climax with a huge round stone. 

The tourist tiad the choice of his words, but there 
was no such latitude allowed to that of his senti- 
ments. The love of virtue and of liberty, which 
must have distinguished the character, certainly 
adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace; and the gentle- 
manly spirit, so recommendatory either in an author 
or his productions, is very conspicuous throughout 
the Classical Tour. But these generous qualities 
are the foliage of such a performance, and may be 
spread about it so prominently and profusely, as to 
embarrass those who wish to see and find the fruit 
at hand. The unction of the divine, and the ex- 
hortations of the moralist, may have made this work 
something more and better than a book of travels, 
but they have not made it a book of travels; and 
this observation applies more especially to that 
enticing method of instruction conveyed by the 
perpetual introduction of the same Gallic Helot to 
reel and bluster before the rising generation, and 
terrify it into decency by the display of all the ex- 
cesses of the revolution. An animosity against 
atheists and regicides in general, and Frenchmen 
specifically, may be honorable, and may be useful 
as a record; but that antidote should either be 
administered in any work rather than a toi'r, or, at 
least, should be served up apart, and not so mixed 
with the whole mass of information and reflection, 
as to give a bitterness to every page: for who would 
choose to have the antipathies of any man, however 
just, for his travelling companions.^ A tourist, 
unless he aspires to the credit of prophecy, is not 
answerable for the changes which may take place 
in the country which he describes; but his reader 
may very fairly esteem all his political portraits 
and deductions as so much waste paper, the moment 
they cease to assist, and more particularly if they 
obstruct, his actual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any govern- 
ment, or governors, is meant to be here offered; 
but it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the 
change operated, either by the address of the late 
imperial system, or by the disappointment of every 
expectation by those who have succeeded to the 
Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so 
apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace's antigal- 
lican philippics entirely out of date, but e\en to 
throw some suspicion upon the competency and 
candor of the author himself. A remarkable exam- 
ple may be found in the instance of Bologna, over 
whose papal attachments, and consequent desola- 
tion, the tourist pours forth such strains of condo- 
lence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed 
trumpet of Mr. Burke. Now Bologna is at this 
moment, and has been for some years, noioiious 
amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to 
revolutionary principles, and was almost the only 
city which made any demonstrations in favor cf the 
unfortunate Murat. This change may, however, 
have been made since Mr. Eustace visited this 
country; but the traveller whom he has thrilled 
with horror at the projected stripping of the copper 
from the cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved 
to find that sacrilege out of the power of the French, 



374 



THE GIAOUR. 



or any other plunderers, the cupola being covered 
wtth lead 1 

If the conspiring voice of othewise rival critics 
had not given considerable currency to the Classi- 
col Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn 
the reader, that however it may adorn his library, 
it will be of Utile or no service to him in his carriai^e ; 
and if the judgment of those critics had hitherto 
been suspended, no attempt would have been made 
to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who 

1 " What, then, will be the astonishment, or 
rather the horror, of my reader, when I inform him 
. . . the French Committee turned its attention to 
Saint Peters, and employed a company of Jews to 
estimate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze 
that adorn the inside of the edifice as well as the 
copper that covers the vaults and dome on the out- 
side." Chap. iv. p. 130, vol. ii. The story about 
tie Jews is positively denied at Rome. 



stand in the relation of posterity to Mr. Eustace 
may be permitted to appeal from contemporary 
praises, and are perhaps more likely to be just m 
proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the 
further removed. This appeal had, in some meas- 
ure, been made before the above remarks were 
written; for one of the most respectable of the 
Florentine publishers, who had been persuaded by 
the repeated inquiries of those on their journey 
southwards to reprint a cheap edition of the Classi- 
cal Tour, was, by the concurring advice of return- 
ing travellers, induced to abandon his design, 
although he had already arranged his types and 
paper, and had struck off one or two of the first 
sheets. 

The writer of these notes would wish to part 
(like Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope 
and the Cardinals, but he does not think it neces- 
sary to extend the same discreet silence to their 
humble partisans. 



THE GIAOUR; 

K FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 



'One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting. 

Moore. 



rO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., 



AS A SLIGHT, BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS, 

RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, 

AUD GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED ■ 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

BYRON. 



London, May, 1813. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The tale which these disjointeid fnigments present is founded upon circumstances now less common in 
the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the " olden time," 01 
because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the 
adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and 
avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic 



THE GIAOUR. 



375 



of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for 
some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the 
plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during 
which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithfuJ. 



INTRODUCTION. 

The " Giaour" was published in May, 1813, and abundantly sustained the impression created by the 
first two cantos of Childe Harold. It is obvious that in this, the first of his romantic narratives, Byron's 
versification reflects the admiration he always avowed for Coleridge's " Christabel," — the irregular rhythm 
of which had already been adopted in the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." The fragmentary style o-* he 
composition was suggested by the then new and popular " Columbus " of Mr. Rogers. As to the subject, 
it was not merely by recent travel that the author had familiarized himself with Turkish history. " Old 
Knolles," he said at Missolonghi, a few weeks before his death, " was one of the first books that gave me 
pleasure when a child; and I believe it had much influencr; on my future wishes to visit the Levant, and 
gave, perhaps, the oriental coloring which is observed in my poetry." In the margin of his copy of Mr. 
D'Israeli's essay on "The Literary Character," is the following note: — " Knolles, Cantemir, De Tott, 
Lady M. W. Montague, Hawkins's translation from Mignot's History of the Turks, the Arabian Nights. 
— All travels or histories, or books upon the East, I could meet with, I had read, as well as Ricaut, be- 
fore I was ten years old." 

An incident which occurred while Byron was at Athens was the foundation of the Giaour. His Turk- 
ish servant tampered with a female slave, and on his return from bathing one day Byron met a party of 
men who were carrying the girl, sewn up in a sack, to throw her into the sea. He threatened to shoot 
the leader of the band unless they took back their victim to the governor's house, where by a combina- 
tion of menaces, entreaties, and bribery, he obtained her release. He afterwards said, " that to describe 
the feelings of the situation was impossible, and that to recollect them even, was icy" 



No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tombi which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff. 
High o'er the land he saved in vain : 
When shall such hero live again ? 
* * * * * 

Fair clime ! '^ where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles. 



1 A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by 
some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 

^ [" Of the beautiful flow of Byron's fancy," says 
Moore, " when its sources were once -opened on 
any subject, the Giaour affords one of the most re- 
markable instances : this poem having accumulated 
under his hand, both in printing and through suc- 
cessive editions, till from four hundred lines, of 
which it consisted in its first copy, it at present 
amounts to fourteen hundred. The plan, indeed, 
which he had adopted, of a series of fragments, — a 
se^t of ' orient pearls at random strung ' — left him 
free to introduce, without reference to mr)rc than 
the general complexion of his story, whatever sen- 



Which, seen from far Colonna's height. 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave : 



timents or images his fancy, in its excursions, could 
collect; and, how little fettered he was by any re- 
gard to connection in these additions, appears- 
from a note which accompanied his own copy of 
this paragraph, in which he says — ' I have not yet 
fixed the place of insertion for the following lines, 
but will, when I see you — as I have no copy.' 
Even into this new passage, rich as it was at first, 
his fancy afterwards poured a fresh infusion." — 
The value of these after-touches may be appreciated 
by comparing the following verses, from his orig- 
inal draft of this paragraph, with the form which 
they now wear: — 

" Fair clime! where ceaseless summer smrles, 
Beniajnant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen froni far Colonna's height, 



376 



THE GIAOUR. 



And if at times a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odors there! 
For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale. 
Sultana of the Nightingale,! 

The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows. 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest. 
Returns the sweets by nature given 
In softest incense back to heaven; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there. 
And many a shade that love might share. 
And many a grotto, meant for rest. 
That holds the pirate for a guest; 
Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 
Till the gay mariner's guitar - 
Is heard, and seen the evening star; 
Then stealing with the muffled "oar 
Far shaded by the rocky shore, 
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
And turn to groans his roundelay. 
Strange — that where Nature loved to trace. 
As if for Gods, a dwelling-place. 
And every charm and grace hath mixed 
Within the paradise she fixed. 
There man, enamoured of distress. 
Should mar it into wilderness, 
And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
That tasks not one laborious hour ; 
Nor claims the culture of his hand 
To bloom along the fairy land, 
But springs as to preclude his care. 



Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And give to loneliness delight. 
There shine the bright abodes ye seek. 
Like dimples upon Oceafi's cheek. 
So smiling round the waters lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave. 
Or if, at times, the transient breeze 
Break the smooth crystal of the seas, 
Or brush one blossom from the trees. 
How grateful is the gentle air 
That waves and wafts Xhz fragrance there." 
'^The whole of this passage, from line 7 down to line 
167, " Who heard it first had cause to grieve," was 
not in the first edition. 

1 The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is 
a well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the 
" Bulbul of a thousand tales" is one of his appel- 
lations. 

' The guitar is the constant amusement of the 
Greek sailor by night: with a steady fair wind, and 
during a calm, it is accompanied always by the 
voice, and often by dancing. 



And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside, 

There passion riots in her pride, 

And lust and rapine wildly reign 

To darken o'er the fair domain. 

It is as tliough the fiends prevailed 

Against the seraphs they assailed. 

And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The freed inheritors of hell ; 

So soft the scene, so formed for joy, 

So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
Ere the first day of death is fled, 
The first dark day of nothingness, 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept tlie lines where beauty lingers,) 
And marked the mild angelic air. 
The rapture of repose that's there. 
The fixed yet tender traits that streak 
The languor of the placid cheek, 
And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
Where cold Obstruction's apathy 3 
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
Yes, but for these and these alone, 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
He still might doubt the tyrant's power; 
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, 
The first, last look by death revealed ! ^ 
Such is the aspect of this shore; 
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 5 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
We start, for soul is wanting there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death, 
That parts not quite with parting breath ; 



•^ " Ay, but to die and go we know not where. 
To lie in cold obstruction — " 

Measure for Measure, 

* I trust that few of my readers have ever had nn 
opportunity of witnessing what is here attempted 
in description, but those who have will probablj"^ re- 
tain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty 
which pervades, with few exceptions, the features 
of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, 
after " the spirit is not there." It is to be remarked 
in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, th.^ 
expression is alwaj's that of languor, whatever the 
natural energy of the sufferer's character: but in 
death from a stab the countenance preserves its 
traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to 
the last. 

■'' [In Dallaway's Constantinople, a book which 
Lord Byron is not unlikely to liave consulted, I find 
a passage quoted from (lillies's History of Greece, 
which contains, perhaps, the first seed of the thought 
thus expanded into full perfection by genius: — 
" The present state of Greece compared to the 
ancient, is the silent obscurity of the grave con- 
trasted with the vivid lustre of active lifet" — 
Moore.} 



THE GIAOUR, 



%11 



But beauty witli tliat fearful bloom, 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hovering round decay, 
The farewell beam of Feeling past away 1 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly 

birth. 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cher- 
ished earth ! i 

Clime of the unforgotten brave! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was B'reedom's home or Glory's grave ! 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 
That this is all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 

Say, is not this Thermopylas ? 
These waters blue that round you lave. 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
They too will rather die than shame : 
For Freedom's battle once begun. 
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled oft is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
Attest it many a deathless age 1 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid. 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command. 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace. 
Each step from splendor to disgrace; 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot sway. 

What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 

No legend of thine olden time. 
No theme on which the muse might soar 
High as thine own in days of yore. 



1 [There is infinite beauty and effect, though of 
a painful and almost oppressive character, in this 
extraordinary passage; in which the author has 
illustrated the beautiful, but still and melancholy 
aspect of the once busy and glorious shores of 
Greece, by an image more true, more mournful, 
and more exquisitely finished, than any that we can 
recollect in the whole compass of poetry. — 
Jeffrey.-\ 



When man was worthy of thy clime. 
The hearts within thy valleys bred. 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave. 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,2 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stained with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the biutes; 
Without even savage virtue blest, 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighboring ports they waft 
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
In this the subtle Greek is found, 
For this, and this alone, renowned. 
In vain might Liberty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke, 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
No more her sorrows I bewail. 
Yet this will be a mournful tale. 
And they who listen may believe. 
Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 
***** 

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing. 
The shadows of the rocks advancing 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 
And fearful for his light caique. 
He shuns the near but doubtful creek 
Though worn and weary with his toil, 
And cumbered with his scaly spoil, 
Slowlv, yet strongly, plies the oar. 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an Eastern night. 
***** 

Who thundering comes on blackest steed,^ 
With slackened bit and hoof of speed ? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
The caverned echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
The foam that streaks the courser's side 
Seems gathered from the ocean-tide : 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest. 
There's none within his rider's breast ; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 



2 Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the 
slave of the seraglio and guardian of the women), 
who appoints the Way-wode. A pander and eunuch 
— these arc not polite, yet ti ue appellations — now 
governs the governor of Athens ! 

3 [The reciter of the tale is a Turkish fisherman, 
who has been employed during the day in the gulf 
of yEgina, and in the evening, apprehensive of the 
Mainote pirates who infest the coast of Attica, lands 
with his boat on the harbor of Port Leone, the 
ancient Piraeus. He becomes the eye-witness of 
nearly all the incidents in the story, and in one of 
them is a principal agent. It is to his feelings, and 
particularly to his religious prejudices, that we are 
indebted for some of the most forcible and splendid 
parts of the poem. — George E^z's.] 



378 



THE GIAOUR. 



'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! i 

I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 

But in thine lineaments I trace 

What time shall strengthen, not efface : 

Though young and pale, that sallow front 

Is scathed by liery passion's brunt; 

Though bent on eai th thine evil eye, 

As meteor-like thou glidest by. 

Right well I view and deem thee one 

Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 

On — on he hastened, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Taough like a demon of the night 
He passed, and vanished from my sight, 
His aspect and his air impressed 
A troubled memory on my breast, 
And long upon my startled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep. 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep; 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fixed on those that flee ; 
And not a star but shines too bright 
On him who takes such timeless flight. 
He wouufl along ; but ere he passed 
One glance he snatched, as if his last, 
A moment checked his wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Wliy looks he o'er the olive wood ? 
The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
The Mosque's high lamps are quivering 

still : 
Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike,2 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal, 
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun ; 
To-niglU, the Bairam feast's begun ; 
To-night — but who and what art thou 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
And what are these to thine or thee. 
That thou should'st either pause or flee ? 

He stood — some dread was on his face. 
Soon Hatred settled in its place : 
It rose not with the reddening flush 
Of transient Anger's hasty blush. 
But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed ; 



1 [In Dr. Clarke's Travels, this word, which 
means Infidel, is always written according to its 
English pronunciation, Djour. Byron adopted the 
Italian spelling usual among the Franks of the 
Levant.] 

2 ♦' Tophaike," musket. — The Bairam is an- 
nounced by the cannon at sunset; the illumination 
of the mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small 
arms, loaded with 3a//, proclaim it during the night. 



He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 

And sternly shook his hand on high, 

As doubting to return or fly : 

Impatient of his flight delayed. 

Here loud his raven charger neighed — 

Down glanced that hand, and grasped his 

blade. 
That sound had burst his waking dream, 
As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 
Away, away, for life he rides : 
Swift as the hurled on high jerreed^ 
Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 
The rock is doubled, and the shore 
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 
The crag is won, no more is seen 
His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
'Twas but an instant he restrained 
That fiery barb so sternly reined ; 
'Twas but a moment that he stood, 
Then sped as if by death pursued: 
But in that instant o'er his soul 
Winters of Memory seemed to roll, 
And gather in that drop of time 
A life of pain, an age of crime. 
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
Such moment pours the grief of years : 
What felt he then, at once opprest 
By all that most distracts the breast ? 
That pause, which pondered o'er his fate, 
Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
Though in Time's record nearly nought. 
It was Eternity to Thought! 
For infinite as boundless space 
The thought that Conscience must embrace, 
Which in itself can comprehend 
Woe without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
And did he fly or fall alone ? 
Woe to that hour he came or went ! 
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 
To turn a palace to a tomb ; 
He came, he went, like the Simoom,* 
That harbinger of fate and gloom, 
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 

The steed is vanished from the stall ; 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
The lonely Spider's thin gray pall 



3 Jerreed, or Djerrld, a blunted Turkish javeliii, 
which is darted from horseback with great force and 
precision. It is a favorite exercise of the Mussul- 
mans; but I know not if it can be called a inniily 
one, since the most expert in the art are the Black 
Eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next to these, 
a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful that 
came within mv observation. 

■» The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing liv- 
ing, and often alluded to in eastern poetry, [The 



THE GIAOUR. 



379 



Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 

The Bat builds in his Haram bower, 

And in the fortress of his power 

The Owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 

The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 

With baffled thirst, and famine, grim ; 

For the stream has shrunk from its marble 

bed, 
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are 

spread. 
'Twas sweet of yore to see it play 
And chase the sultriness of day. 
As springing high the silver dew 
In whirls fantastically flew. 
And flung luxurious coolness round 
The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were 

bright. 
To view the wave of watery light, 
And hear its melody by night. 
And oft had Hassan's Childhood played 
Around the verge of that cascade ; 
And oft upon his mother's breast 
That sound had harmonized his rest; 
And oft had Hassan's Youth along 
Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song ; 
And softer seemed each melting tone 
Of Music mingled with its own. 
But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose 
Along the brink at Twilight's close: 
The stVeam that filled that font is fled — 
The blood that warmed his heart is shed ! 
And here no more shall human voice 
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 
The last sad note that swelled the gale 
Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 
That quenched in silence, all is still. 
But the lattice that flaps when the wind is 

shrill : 
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 
No hand shall close its clasp again. 
On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 
The rudest steps of fellow man, 
So here the very voice of Grief 
Might wake an Echo like relief — 
At least 'twould say, " All are not gone ; 
There lingers Life, though but in one" — 
For many a gilded chamber's there, 
Which Solitude might well forbear ; i 



effects of the Simoom have been grossly exag- 
gerated.] 

^ [" I have just recollected an alteration you may 
make in the proof. Among the lines on Hassan's 
Serai, is this — 

' Unmeet for solitude to share.' 
Now, to share implies more than one, and Solitude 
is a single gentleman; it must be thus — 

' For many a gilded chamber's there, 

Which solitude might well forbear; ' 

and so on. Will you adopt this correction.' and 

pray accept a Stilton cheese from me for your 

trouble. — P. S. I leave this to your discretion: if 



Within that dome as yet Decay 

Hath slowly worked her cankering way — 

But gloom is gathered o'er the gate. 

Nor there the Fakir's self will wait; 

Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 

For bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred " bread and sah." 2 

Alike must Wealth and Poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by. 

For Courtesy and Pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, that refuge unto men. 

Is Desolation's hungry den. 

The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from 

labor 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's 

sabre ! ^ 

***** 

I hear the sound of coming feet. 
But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 
More near — each turban I can scan, 
And silver-sheathed ataghan ; * 
The foremost of the band is seen 
An Emir by his garb of green : 5 
" Ho ! who art thou ? " — " this low salam ^ 
Replies of Moslem faith I am." — 
" The burden ye so gently bear 
Seems one that claims your utmost care. 
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight. 
My humble bark would gladly wait." 

" Thou speakest sooth : thy skiff unmoor. 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay, leave the sail still furled, and ply 
The nearest oar that's scattered by. 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channelled waters dark and deep. 



anybody thinks the old line a good one, or the cheese 
a bad one, don't accept of either." — Byron s Let- 
ters, Stilton, October 3, 1813.] 

^ To partake of food, to break bread and salt 
with your host, insures the safety of the guest: even 
though an enemy, his person from that moment is 
sacred. 

3 I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hos- 
pitality are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet; 
and to say truth, very generally practised by his 
disciples. The first praise that can be bestowed on 
a chief, is a panegyric on his bounty; the next, on 
his valor. 

* The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols 
in the belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; 
and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 

^ Green is the privileged color of the prophet's 
numerous pretended descendants; with them, as 
here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to 
supersede the necessity of good works: they are 
the worst of a very indifferent brood. 

6 " Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam! " peace be 
with you; be with you peace — the salutation 
reserved for the faithful: — to a Christian, " Urla- 
rula," a good journey; or, " saban hiresem, saban 
serula; "good morn, good even; and sometimes, 
" may your end be happy; " are the usual salutes. 



)S0 



THE GIAOUR. 



Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, 
That one of— *" * * 

* * * * *" 

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, 
The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
I watched it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirred it more, — 'twas but the beam 
That checkered o'er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishing from view. 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew; 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemmed the tide, then mocked the 

sight ; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep. 
Known but to Genii of the deep. 
Which, trembling in their coral caves, 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 
***** 

As rising on its purple wing 
The insect queen i of eastern spring 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near. 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour. 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye : 
So Beauty lures the full-grown child. 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears. 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betrayed. 
Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace. 
From infant's play, and man's caprice : 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
Hath lost its charm by being caught, 
For every touch that wooed its stay 
Hath brushed its brightest hues away. 
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
'Tis left to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast. 
Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before ? 
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, 
Find joy within her broken bower ? 
No : gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 
And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own. 
And every woe a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame. 

***** 

The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 
Is like the Scorpion girt by fire. 



' The blue-winger! butterfly of Kashmeer, the 
most rare and beautiful of the species. 



In circle narrowing as it glows, 

The flames around their captive close, 

Till inly searched by thousand throes. 

And maddening in lier ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourished for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain. 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain. 
And darts into her desperate brain ; 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ; 2 
So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, 
Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath. 
Around it flame, within it death ! 

* * •* * * 

Black Hassan from the Haram flies. 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs. 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell ? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumors in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away 
When Rhamazan'sS last sun was set. 
And flashing from each minaret 
Millions of lamps proclaimed the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless. East. 
'Twas then she went as to the bath. 
Which Hassan vainly searched in wrath ; 
For she was flown her master's rage 
In likeness of a Georgian page. 
And far beyond the ^Ioslem's power 
Had wronged him with the faithless Giaour. 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deemed; 
But still so fond, so feir she seemed. 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
And on that eve had gone to mosque. 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell. 
Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
But others say, that on that night, 
By pale Phingari's ■* trembling light. 
The Giaour upon his jet black steed 



2 Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, 
so placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. 
Some maintain that the position of the sting, when 
turiied towards the head, is merely a convulsive 
movement; but others have actually brought in 
the verdict " Felo de se." The scorpions are sure- 
ly interested in a. speedy decision of the question ; 
as, if once fairly established as insect Catos, they 
will probably be allowed to live as long as they 
think proper, without being martyred for the sake 
of an hypothesis. [Byron told Mr. Dallas that this 
simile of the scorpion was imagined by him in his 
sleep.] 

■'' The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazaa 
See ante, p. 378, note. 

* Phingari, the moon. 



THE GIAOUR. 



383 



Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 
***** 

Her eyes' dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
But g.ize on that ot the Gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark, 
But Soul beamed forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid. 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.i 
Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 
That form was nought but breathing clay. 
By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
Though on Al-Sirat's '^ arch I stood, 
Which totters o'er the fiery flood. 
With Paradise within my view. 
And all his Houris^ beckoning through. 
Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
And keep that portion ot his creed. 
Which saith that woman is but dust, 
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 4 
On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
That through her eye the Immortal shone; 
On her fair cheek's unfading hue 

1 The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giam- 
schid, the embellisher oflstakhar; from its splendor, 
named Schebgerag, " the torch of night; " also 
" the cup of the sun," etc. In the first edition, 
"Giamschid" was written as a word of three syl- 
lables, so D'Herbelot has it; but I am told Rich- 
ardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes " Jam- 
shid." I have left in the text the orthography of 
the one with the pronunciation of the other. — [In 
the first edition, Lord Byron had used this word as 
a trisyllable, — "Bright as the gem of Giam- 
schid," — but, on my remarkmg to him, upon the 
authority of Richardson's Persian Dictionary', that 
this was incorrect, he altered it to " Bright as the 
ruby of Giamschid.' On seeing this, however, I 
wrote to him, " that, as the comparison of his her- 
oine's eye to a ruby might unluckily call up the 
idea of its being bloodshot, he had better change the 
line to ' Bright as the jewel of Giamschid; '"which 
he accordingly did, in the following edition. — 
Moore.'\ 

^ Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth, narrower than 
the thread of a famished spider, and sharper than 
the edge of a sword, over which the Mussulmans 
must skate into Paradise, to which it is the only 
entrance; but this is not the worst, the river beneath 
being hell itself, into which, as may be expected, the 
unskilful and tender of foot contrive to tumble with 
a"facilis descensus Averni," not very pleasing in 
prospect to the next passenger. There is a shorter 
cut downwards for the Jews and Christians. 

i* [The virgins of Paradise, called from their large 
black eyes, Htir al cyu7i. An intercourse with 
these, according to the institution of Mahomet, is 
to constitute the principal felicity of the faithful. 
Not formed of clay, like mortal women, they are 
adorned with unfading charms, and deemed to pos- 
sess the celestial privilege of an eternal youth.] 

♦ A vulgar error: the Koran allots at least a third 
of Paradise to well-behaved women; but by f^r the 
greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text 



The young pomegranate's 5 blossoms strew 

Their bloom in bjushes ever i,ew; 

Her hair in hyacinthine^ flow. 

When left to roll its folds below. 

As midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birlh 

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! ? 

As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride. 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus armed with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he ? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 
***** 

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train, 
Each armed, as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
The chief before, as decked for war. 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stained with the best of Arnaut blood, 
When in the pass the rebels stood, 
And few returned to tell the tale 
Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
The pistols which his girdle bore 
Were those that once a pasha wore. 
Which still, though gemmed and bossed 

with gold. 
Even robbers tremble to behold. 
'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
More true than her who left his side ; 
The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour I 
***** 

The sun's last rays are on the hill. 
And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear. 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 

their own way, and exclude their moiiies from 
heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot 
discern " any fitness of things " in the souls of the 
otlier sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the 
Houris. 

^ An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though 
fairly stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Ara- 
bic." 

" Hyacinthine, in Arabic " Sunbul; " as common 
a thought in the eastern poets as it was among the 
Greeks. 

' " Franguestan," Circassia. 



582 



THE GIAOUR. 



Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
***** 

The foremost Tartar's in the gap, 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above, the mountain rears a peak. 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night. 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light : 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray. 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveiled ? 

* * * * * 

They reach the grove of pine at last : 
" Bismillah ! i now the peril's past ; 
For yonder view the opening plain. 
And there we'll prick our steeds amain : " 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again : 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their courser's harness leant. 

Half sheltered by the steed ; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock. 
And there await the coming shock, 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen. 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stern Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 
Then curled his very beard - with ire. 



1 Bismillah — " In the name of God; " the com- 
mencement of all the chapters of the Koran but one, 
and of prayer and thanksgiving. 

2 A phenomenon not nncommon with an angry 
Mussulman. In iScx^, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers 
at a diplomatic audience were no less lively with 



And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 

" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 

I've scaped a bloodier hour than this." 

And now the foe their covert quit. 

And call his vassals to submit ; 

But Hassan's frown and furious word 

Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 

Nor of his little band a man 

Resigned carbine or ataghan. 

Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 3 

In fuller sight, more near and near, 

The lately ambushed foes appear, 

And, issuing from the grove, advance 

Some who on battle-charger prance. 

Who leads them on with foieign brand, 

Far flashing in his red right hand ? 

" 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! I know him now ; 

I know him by his pallid brow; 

I know him by the evil eye ^ 

That aids his envious treachery ; 

I know him by his jet-black barb : 

Though now arrayed in Arnaut garb. 

Apostate from his own vile faith. 

It shall not save him from the death : 

'Tis he ! well met in any hour. 

Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour 1 " 

As rolls the river into ocean. 
In sable torrent wildly streaming; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gleaming. 
Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood. 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave. 
Roused by the blast of w inter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering 

clash. 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore. 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet. 
With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 
And pealing wide or ringing near 
Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The deathshot hissing from afar ; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war. 
Reverberate along that vale. 
More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
Thousrh few the numbers — theirs the strife. 



indignation than a tiger cat's, to the h.)rror of all 
the dragomans; the portentous mustachios wisted, 
they stood erect of their own accord, .ti'. : were 
expected every moment to change their color, but 
at last condescended to subside, which, probably, 
saved more heads than they contained hairs. 

^ " Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

* The " evil eye," a common superstition in the 
Levant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet 
very singular on those who conceive themselves 
affected. 



THE GIAOUR. 



383 



That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
Ah ! fondly youtliful hearts can press 
To seize and share the dear caress : 
But Love itself could never pant 
For all that Beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervor Hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes, 
When grappling in the fight tliey fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : 
Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith ; 
True foes, once met, are joined till death ! 
***** 

With sabre shivered to the hilt, 
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
Yet strained within the severed hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand; 
His turban far behind him rolled, 
And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
And crimson as those clouds of morn 
That, streaked with dusky red, portend 
The day shall have a stormy end ; 
A stain on every bush that iDore 
A fragment of his palampore, i 
His breast with wounds unnumbered riven. 
His back to earth, his face to heaven. 
Fallen Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
Yet lowering on his enemy. 
As if the hour that sealed his fate 
Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
As dark as his that bled below. — 
***** 

"Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 

But his shall be a redder grave ; 

Her spirit pointed well the steel 

Which taught that felon heart to feel. 

He called the Prophet, but his power 

Was vain against the vengeful Giaour : 

He called on Alia — but the word 

Arose unheeded or unheard. 

Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 

Be passed, and thine accorded there ? 

I watched my time, I leagued with these, 

The traitor in his turn to seize ; 

My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done, 

And now I go — but go alone." 

***** 
***** 

The browsing camels' bells are tinkling : 2 
His Mother looked from her lattice high, 
She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 



1 The flowered shawls generally worn by persons 
of rank. 

- [This beautiful passage first appeared in the 
third edition. " If you send more proofs," writes 
Byron to Mr. Murray (August loth, 1813), "I 
shaU never finish this infernal story. Ecce signuin 
— thirty three more lines inclosed! — to the utter 
discomfiture of the printer, and, I fear, not to your 
advantage."] 



The pasture green beneath her eye. 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling: 
" 'Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden-bower. 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest 

tower ; 
Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet. 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat; 
Why sends not the Bridegroom his prom- 
ised gift ? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less 

swift? ~ 
Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
Has gained our nearest mountain's brow, 
And warily the steep decends, 
And now wdthin the valley bends ; 
And he bears the gift at his saddle bow — ■ 
How could I deem his courser slow ? 
Right well my largess shall repay 
His welcome speed, and weary way." 

The Tartar lighted at the gate, 
But scarce upheld his fainting weight : 
His swarthy visage spake distress. 
But this might be from weariness ; 
His garb with sanguine spots was dyed. 
But these might be from his courser's side ; 
He drew the token from his vest — 
Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest ! 
His calpac3 rent — his caftan red — 
" Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed : 
Me, not from mercy, did they spare. 
But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt ; 
Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt." 
* * * * * 

A turban 4 carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown. 
Whereon can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee; 
As ever scorned forbidden wine, 
Or prayed with face towards the shrine, 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solemn sound of " Alia Hu ! " 5 



3 The " Calpac " is the solid cap or centre part of 
the headdress; the shawl is wound round it, and 
forms the turban. 

* The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, deco- 
rate the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the 
cemetery or the wilderness. In the mountains j-ou 
frequently pass similar mementos: and on inquiry 
you are informed that they record some victim of 
rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 

'"'"Alia Hu!" the concluding words of the 
Muezzin's call to prayer from the highest gallery 
on the exterior of the Minaret. On a still evening, 
when the Muezzin has a fine voice, which is fre- 
quently the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful 
beyond all the bells in Christendom. — [Valid, the 



384 



THE GIAOUR. 



Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
And stranger in his native land ; 
Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
And unavenged, at least in blood. 
But him the maids of Paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite, 
And the dark Heaven of Houris' eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they 

wave.i 
And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 



But thou, false Infidel ! shalt writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's^ scythe; 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis'3 throne; 
And fire unquenched, unquenchable, 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
The tortures of that inward hell ! 
But first, on earth as vampire ^ sent. 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 



son of Abdalmalek, was the first who erected a 
minaret or turret; and this he placed on the grand 
mosque at Damascus, for the muezzin, or crier, to 
announce from it the hour of prayer.] 

1 The following is part of a battle song of the 
Turks: — "I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of Para- 
dise, and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of 
green ; and cries aloud, ' Come, kiss me, for I love 
thee,' " etc. 

- Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the 
dead, before whom the corpse undergoes a slight 
noviciate and preparatory training for damnation. 
If the answers are none of the clearest, he is hauled 
up with a scythe and thumped down with a red hot 
mace till properly seasoned, with a varietj;^ of sub- 
sidiary probations. The office of these angels is no 
sinecure; there are but two, and the number of 
orthodox deceased being in small proportion to the 
remainder, their hands are always full. See Relig. 
Cereinon. and Sale's Korafi. 

3 Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. — 
[D'Herbelot supposes this title to have been a cor- 
ruption of the Greek Aia/3oAos.] 

* The Vampire superstition is still general in the 
Levant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, 
which Mr. Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, 
about these " Vroucolochas," as he calls ihem. 
The Romaic term is " Vardoulacha." I recollect a 
whole family b^^ing terrified by the scream of a 
child, which they imagined must proceed from such 
a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word 
without horror. 1 find that " F.roucolocas" is an 
old legitimate Hellenic appellation — at least is so 
applied to Arsfnius, who, according to the Greeks, 
was after his death animated by the Devil. — The 
moderns, however, use the word I mention. 



Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire, 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 
Thy flowers are withered on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
The youngest, most beloved of all. 
Shall bless thee with ^.fathej-'s name — 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark. 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 
Then with unhallowed hand shall tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair. 
Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Aff"ection's fondest pledge was worn. 
But now is borne away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony ! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip 6 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave. 
Go — and with Ghouls and Afrits rave; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they ! 6 
***** 

" How name ye yon lone Caloyer ? 

His features I have scanned before 
In mine own land : 'tis many a year, 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so marked with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
As death were stamped upon his brow." 

" 'Tis twice three years at summer tide 
Since first among our freres he came ; 

And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name, 

But never at our vesper prayer. 

Nor e'er before confession chair 

Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 

Incense or anthem to the skies. 

But broods within his cell alone. 

His faith and race alike unknown. 

The sea from Paynim land he crost, 

And here ascended from the coast ; 

Yet seems he not of Othman race. 

But only Christian in his face : 

I'd judge him some stray renegade. 



^ The freshness of the face, and the wetness of 
the lip with blood, are the never-failing signs of a 
Vampire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece 
of these foul feeders are singular, and some of them 
most incredibly attested. 

" [The imprecations of the Turk, against the 
" accursed Giaour," are introduced with great 
judgment, and contribute much to the dramatic 
effect of the narrative. — George Ellis.'] 



THE GIAOUR. 



385 



Repentant of the change he made, 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these- walls he brought, 
And thus our abbot's favor bought ; 
But were I Prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay, ' 
Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelmed beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On clitf" he hath been known to stand, 
And rave as to some bloody hand 
Fresh severed from its parent limb, 
Invisible to all but him. 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 
And lures to' leap into the wave." 
***** 
***** 

Dark and unearthly is the scowl l 

That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 

The flash of that dilating eye 

Reveals too much of times gone by ; 

Though varying, indistinct its hue, 

Oft will his glance the gazer rue. 

For in it lurks that nameless spell, 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 

A spirit yet unquelled and high. 

That claims and keeps ascendency : 

And like the bird whose pinions quake. 

But cannot fly the gazing snake, 

Will others quail beneath his look. 

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can 

brook. 
From him the half-affrighted Friar 
When met alone would fain retire, 
As if that eye and bitter smile 
Transferred to others fear and guile : 
Not oft to smile descendeth he. 
And when he doth 'tis sad to see 
That he but mocks at Misery. 
How that pale lip will curl and quiver ! 
Then fix once more as if foj ever; 
As if his sorrow or disdain 
Forbade him e'er to smile again. 
Well were it so — such ghastly m.irth 
From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 
But sadder still were it to trace 
What once were feelings in that face ; 
Time hath not yet the features fixed. 
But brighter traits with evil mixed ; 
And there are hues not always faded. 
Which speak a mind not all degraded 
Even by the crimes through which it 

waded : 



^ [The remaining lines, about five hundred in 
number, were, with the exception of the last six- 
teen, all added to the poem either during its first 
progr-^ss through the press, or in subsequent edi- 
tions.] 



The common crowd but see the gloom 
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
The close observer can espy 
A noble soul, and lineage high : 
Alas ! though both bestowed in vain. 
Which Grief could change, and Guilt could 

stain. 
It was no vulgar tenement 
To which such lofty gifts were lent, 
And still with little less than dread 
On such the sight is riveted. 
The roofless cot, decayed and rent. 

Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent. 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; 
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone. 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

" His floating robe around him folding, 
Slow sweeps he through the columned 
aisle ; 
With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 

The rites that sanctify the pile. 
But when the anthem shakes the choir. 
And kneel the monks, his steps retire; 
By yonder lone and wavering torch 
His aspect glares within the porch ; 
There will he pause till all is done — 
And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
See — by the half-illumined wall 
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall. 
That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 
As if the Gorgon there had bound 
The sablest of the serpent-braid 
That o'er her fearful forehead strayed : 
For he declines the convent oath. 
And leaves those locks unhallowed growth. 
But wears our grab in all beside ; 
And, not from piety but pride. 
Gives wealth to walls that never heard 
Of his one holy vow nor word. 
Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
Peals louder praises to the sky. 
That livid cheek, that stony air 
Of mixed defiance and despair! 
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine! 
Else may we dread the wrath divine 
Made manifest by awful sign. 
If ever evil angel bore 
The form of mortal, such he wore : 
By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
Such looks are not of earth nor heaven ! " 

To love the softest hearts are prone. 
But such can ne'er be all his own; 
Too timid in his woes to share. 
Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 
And sterner hearts alone may feel 
The wound that time can never heal. 
The rugged metal of the mine 
Must burn before its surface shine, 



386 



THE GIAOUR. 



But plunged within the furnace-flame, 
It bends and melts — though still the same ; 
Then tempered to thy want, or will, 
'Twill serve thee to defend or kill ; 
A breast-plate for thine hour of need, 
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed; 
But if a dagger's form it bear. 
Let those who shape its edge, beware. 
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art. 
Can turn and tame the sterner heart; 
From these its form and tone are ta'en, 
And what they make it, must remain, 
But break — before it bend again. 



If solitude succeed to grief. 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss — 'twere woe alone to bear ; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay! 
It is as if the desert-bird, i 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famished nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferred. 
Should rend her rash devoted breast. 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind, 

The waste of feelings unemployed. 
Who would be doomed to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
Better to sink beneath the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 
*-, * * * * 

"Father! thy days have passed in peace, 

'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 
To bid the sins of others cease, 

Thyself without a crime or care. 
Save transient ills that all must bear. 
Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
Of passions fierce and uncontrolled, 



1 The pelican is, T believe, the bird so libelled, 
by the imputation of feeding her chickens with her 
blood. 



Such as thy penitents unfold. 

Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 

Within thy pure and pitying breast. 

My days, though few, have passed below 

In much of joy, but more of woe; 

Yet still in hours of love or strife, 

I've 'scaped the weariness of life : 

Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 

I loathed the languor of repose. 

Now nothing left to love or hate. 

No more with hope or pride elate, 

I'd rather be the thing that crawls 

Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 

Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 

Condemned to meditate and gaze. 

Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 

For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. 

Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be still, 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirit shrunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain; 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
Yet death I have not feared to meet ; 
And in the field it had been sweet. 
Had danger wooed me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I've braved it — not for honor's boast; 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To such let others carve their way. 
For high renown, or hireling pay : 
But place again before my eyes 
Aught that I deem a worthy prize, 
The maid I love, the man I hate ; 
And I will hunt the steps of fate, 
To save or slay, as these require. 
Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 
Nor needst thou doubt this speech from one 
Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave. 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
Then let Life go to him who gave : 
I have not quailed to danger's brow 
When high and happy — need I now? 
***** 

" I loved her, Friar ! nay, adored — 

But these are words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word ; 
There's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose : 
'Twas shed for her, who died for me. 

It warmed the heart of one abhorred : 
Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 

Nor midst my sins sucli act record; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 



THE GIAOUR. 



387 



For he was hostile to thy creed ! 

The very name of Nazarene 

Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 

Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 

Well wielded in some hardy hands, 

And wounds by Galileans given, 

The surest pass to Turkish heaven. 

For him his Houris still might wait 

Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 

I loved her — love will find its way 

Through paths where wolves would fear to 

prey; 
And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
If passion met not some reward — 
No matter how, or where, or why, 
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
I wish she had not loved again. 
She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 
But look 'tis written on my brow 1 
There read of Cain the curse and crime, 
In characters unworn by time : 
Still, ere thou dost condenm me, pause; 
Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
Yet did he but what I had done. 
Had she been false to more than one. 
Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 
But true to me, I laid him low : 
Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 
Her treacheiy was truth to me ; 
To me she gave her heart, that all 
Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; 
And I, alas ! too late to save 1 
Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 
His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
Has made me — what thou well may'st hate. 
His doom was sealed — he knew it well, 
Warned by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear i 

1 This superstition of a second hearing (for I 
never met with downright second-sight in the East) 
fell once under my own observation. On my third 
journey to Cape Colonna, early in i8ii, as we 
passed through the defile that leads from the ham- 
let between Keratia and Colonna, I ob.;erved Der- 
vish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and lean- 
ing his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode 
up and inquired. " We are in peril," he answered. 
"What peril .^ we are not now in Albania, nor in 
the passes to Ephesus Messalunghi, or Lepanto, 
there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Chori- 
ates have not courage to be thieves." — "True, 
Affendi, but nevertheless the shot is ringing in my 
ears." — " The shot! not a tophaike has been fired 
this morning." — "I hear it notwithstanding — Bom 
— Bom — as plainly as I hear your voice." — 
" Psha! " — " Asyou please, Affendi; if it is written, 
so will it be." — I left this quick-eared predestina- 
rian, and rode up to Basili, his Christian compa- 
triot, whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by 
no means relished the intelligence. We all arrived 
at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned 
leisurely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in 



The deathshot pealed of murder near, 
As filed the troop to where they fell I 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid. 
One prayer to Alia all he made ; 
He knew and crossed me m the fray — 
I gazed upon him where he lay, 
And watched his spirit ebb away : 
Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I searched, but vainly searched, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betrayed his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ! 
The late repentance of that hour. 
When Penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave. 
And will not soothe, and cannot save. 
« « « jie . « 

" The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 

But mine was like the lava flood 

That boils in .^Etna's breast of flame. 

more languages than spoiled the building of Babel, 
upon the mistaken seer. Romaic, Arnaout, Turk- 
ish, Italian, and English, were all exercised, in 
various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. 
While we were contemplating the beautiful pros- 
pect. Dervish was occupied about the columns. I 
thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and 
asked him if he had become a " Palaocastro" 
man? "No," said he, "but these pillars will be 
useful in making a stand;" and" added other re- 
marks, which at least evinced his own belief in his 
troublesome faculty o{ foreheariiig. On our re- 
turn to Athens we heard from Leone (a prisoner 
set ashore some days after) of the intended attack 
of the Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its 
not taking place, in the notes to Childe Harold, 
Canto 2d. I was at some pains to question the 
man, and he described the dresses, arms, and 
marks of the horses of our party so accurately, 
that, with other circumstances, we could not doubt 
oi his having been in " villanous company," and 
ourselves in a bad neighborhood. Dervish became 
a soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing 
more musketry than ever will be fired, to the great 
refreshment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his 
native mountains. — I shall mention one trait more 
of this singular race. In March, i8ii, a remark 
ably stout and active Arnaout came (1 believe the 
fiftieth on the same errand) to offer himself as an 
attendant, which was declined: "Well, Affendi," 
quoth he, " may you live! — you would have found 
me useful. I shall leave the town for the hills to- 
morrow, in the winter I return, perhaps you will 
then receive me." — Dervish, who was present, 
remarked as a thing of course, and of no con- 
sequence, " in the meantime he will join the 
Klcphtes" (robbers), which was true to the letter. 
If not cut off, they come down in the winter, and 
pass it unmolested in some town, where they are 
often as well known as their exploits. 



388 



THE GIAOUR, 



I cannot prate in puling strain 
Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
■Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
If bursting heart, and maddening brain, 
And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
And all that I have felt and feel. 
Betoken love — that love was mine. 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 
I die — but first 1 have possessed. 
And come what may, I have been blest. 
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
No — reft of all, yet undismayed 
But for the thought of Leila slain, 
Give me the pleasure with the pain, 
So would I live and love again. 
I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
For him who dies, but her who died : 
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 
Ah ! had she but an earthly grave. 
This breaking heart and throbbing head 
Should seek and share her narrow bed.i 
She was a form of life and light. 
That, seen, became a part of sight; 
And rose, where'er I turned mine eye. 
The Morning-star of Memory ! 

Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ; 2 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given. 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above. 
But heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead ciiught, 
To wean fro'm self each sordid thought; 
A Ray of him who formed the whole ; 
A Glory circling round the soul! 
I grant viy love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 



1 [These, in our opinion, are the most beautiful 
passages of the poem ; and some of them of a beauty 
which it would not be easy to eclipse by many cita- 
tions in the language. — J(^ff'>'ey.^ 

^ [The hundred and twenty-six lines which fol- 
low, down to " Tell me no more of fancy's gleam," 
first appeared in the fifth edition. In returning the 
proof, Byron says : — "I have, but with some dififi- 
culty, not added any more to this snake of a foem, 
which has been lengthening its rattles every month. 
It is now fearfully long, being more than a canto 
and a half of ' Childe Harold.' The last lines Hodg- 
son likes. It is not often he does; and when he 
don't, he tells me with great energy, and I fret, and 
alter. I have thrown them in to soften the ferocity 
of our Infidel; and, for a dying man, have given 
him a good deal to say for himself. Do you know 
anybody who can stop — I meiin point — commas, 
and so forth? for I am, I hear, a sad hand at your 
punctuation." Among the Giaour MSS. is the first 
draught of this passage: — 

" Yes ) ( doth spring ^ 

> Love indeed \ descend > from heaven ; 
) (be born ) 



Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 

But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 

She was my life's unerring light : 

That quenched, what beam shall break my 

night ? 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still. 
Although to death or deadHest ill I 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 

This present joy, this future hope, 

No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In phrenzy then their fate accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to woe ? 
Alas 1 the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward blow : 
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear: 
I read abhorrence on thy brow. 

And this too was I born to bear 1 
'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, 
With havoc have I marked my way : 
But this was taught me by the dove. 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn. 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird that sings within the brake. 
The swan that swims upon the lake. 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool still prone to range, 
And sneer on all who cannot change. 
Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys, 
But deem such feeble, heartless man. 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betrayed. 
Such shame at least was^never mine — 
Leila! each thought was only thine! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee. 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 



( immortal \ 
A spark of that | eternal > fire, 

( celestial ) 
To human hearts in mercy given, 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 

To wean from self \ ^^^^ I sordid thought; 

Devotion sends the soul above. 
But Heaven itself descends to love. 

Yet marvel not, if they who" love 
This present joy, this future hope, 
Which taught them with all ill to cope, 

In madness, then, their fate accuse — 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

rp, ^. ^.^^^ \ to add but guilt to ) _„ 

That seem j ^^^ ^^ augment their \ ^°^- 
' breast ' 



Alas! the 



that inly bleeds, 



Has nought to dread from outward foe," etc.] 



THE GIAOUR. 



389 



For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
Tl>e cherished madness of my heart ! 

"And she was lost — and yet I breathed. 

But not the breath of human life : 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed. 

And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, abhorred all place, 
Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face, 
Where every hue that charmed before 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 
The rest thou dost already know, 
And all my sins, and half my woe. 
But talk no more of penitence; 
Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence : 
And if thy holy tale were true. 
The deed that's done canst thou undo ? 
Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief, i 
My soul's estate in secret guess : 
But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
When thou canst bid my Leila live, 
Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 
Tiien plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
From forest-cave her shrieking young. 
And calm the lonely lioness : 
But soothe not — mock not my distress! 

"In earlier days, and calmer hours. 

When heart with heart delights to blend. 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers 

I had — Ah ! have 1 now ? — a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls absorbed like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 

And I have smiled — I then could 
smile — 
When Prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn — I recked not what — the 
while, 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely marked before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass, 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth : 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 



' The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have 
had so little effect upon the patient, that it could 
have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient 
to say, that it was of a customary length (as may be 
perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of 1 
the patient,) and was delivered in the usual tone of j 
all orthodox preachers. I 



Through many a busy bitter scene 
Of all our golden youth had been, 
In pain, my taltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray, 
I do not ask him not to blame. 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame ? 
I do not ask him not to mourn. 
Such cold request might sound like scorn; 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his own of old. 
And tell him — what thou dost behold ! 
The withered frame-, the ruined mind, 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivelled scroll, a scattered leaf. 
Seared by the autumn blast of grief! 
***** 

" Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 
Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watched, and wished to weep ; 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbbed to the very brain as now : 
I wished but for a single tear. 
As something welcome, new, and dear 
I wished it then, I wish it still; 
Despair is stronger than my will. 
Waste not thine orison, despair 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
I would not, if I might, be blest; 
I want no paradise, but rest, 
'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then 
I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
And shining in her white symar, 2 
As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
Who looked and looks far lovelier; 
Dimly I view its trembling spark ; 
To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; 
And I, before its rays appear. 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wander, father 1 for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing form within my grasp. 
No heart that beats reply to mine. 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much. 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
Ah 1 were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wished to hold. 
Alas ! around a shadow prest 

2 " Symar," a shroud. 



390 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD 05. 



They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye- 
I knew 'twas false — she could not die 1 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
They told me wild waves rolled above 
The face I view, the form I love ; 
They told me — 'twas a hideous tale! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, 
Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more ; 
Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart! 
Or further with thee bear my soul 
Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 

* * * * * • 

" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead. 
And, save the cross above my head. 
Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
Bv prying stranger to be read. 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." i 



1 The circumstance to which the above story re- 
lates was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few 
years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to 



Repassed — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day: 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew. 



his father of his son's supposed infidelity; he asked 
with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a 
list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. 
They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned 
in the lake the same night ! One of the gu^^rds who 
was present informed me, that not one of the victims 
uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror at so 
sudden a " wrench from all we know, from all we 
love." The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this sac- 
rifice, is the subject of many a Rom.iicand Arnaout 
ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young 
Venetian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten. 
I heard it by accident recited by one of the coffee- 
house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, and 
sing or recite their narratives. The additions and 
interpolations by the translator will be easily dis- 
tinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern 
imagery; and I regret that my memory has retained 
so few fragments of the original. For the contents 
of some of the notes I am indebted partly to D'Her- 
belot, and partly to that most Ea.stern. and, as Mr. 
Weber justly entitles it, " sublime tale," the "Ca- 
liph Vathek." I do not know from what source the 
author of that singular volume may have drawn his 
materials; some of his incidents are to be found in 
the " Hibliotheque Orientale; " but for correctness 
of costume, beauty of description, and power of im- 
agination, it far surpasses all European imitations; 
and bears such marks of originality, that those who 
have visited the East will find some difficulty In 
believing it to be more than a translation. As an 
Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it; his 
" Happy Vallev " will not bear a comparison with 
the"HallofEblis." 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS:^ 

A TURKISH TALE. 



" Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 

Burns. 



1 [" Murray tells me that Croker asked him why the thing is called the Bride of Abydos? It is an 
awkward question, being unanswerable: she Is not a bride; only about to be one. I don't wonder at 
his finding out the Bull; but the detection is too late to do any good. I was a great fool to have 
made it, and am ashamed of not being an Irishman." — j^j'r^.v'j /?/Vrrj, December 6, 1813.] 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



391 



INTRODUCTION. 

The " Bride of Abydos " was published in the beginning of December, 1813. The mood of mind in 
which it was struck oft" is thus stated by Byron, in a letter to Mr. Giflbrd: — "You have been good 
enough to look at a thing of mine in MS. — a Turkish story — and I should feel gratified if you would 
do it the same favor in its probationary state of printing. It was written, I cannot say for amusement, 
nor ' obliged by hunger and request of friends,' but in a state of mind, from circumstances which occa- 
sionally occur to ' us youth,' that rendered it necessaiy for me to apply my mind to something, anythi:i^', 
but reality; and under this not very brilliant inspiration it was composed. Send it either to the flames, c. 

' A hundred hawkers' load 



On wings of winds to fly or fall abroad.* 

It deserves no better than the first, as the work of a week, and scribbled ' stans pede in uno' (by the by, 
the only foot I have to stand on) ; and I promise never to trouble you again under forty cantos, and a 
voyage between each." 

The opening lines of " The Bride " were supposed to have been imitated from a song of Goethe's — 

" Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bliihn? " 

But Byron could not read German, and if he borrowed the idea, he must, he said, have derived it from 
Madame de Stael who copied Goethe in some verses which Byron, however, was nearly confident he had 
never seen when he wrote his own. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD HOLLAND, 

THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, 

BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND 

SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



I. 

Know ye the land where the cypress and 

myrtle, 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in 

their clime, 
Where the rage of the vuhure, the love of the 

turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to 

crime ? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams 

ever shine ; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed 

with perfume, 



Wax faint o'er the gardens of GuU in her 

bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are ftiirest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of 

the sky. 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they 

twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the 

Sun — 



Gul," the rosco 



392 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Can he smile on such deeds as his children 

have done ? i 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales 
which they tell. 

II. 
Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparelled as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest. 
Old Giaffir sate in his Divan : 

Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betrays to standers by 
The mind within, well skilled to hide 
All but unconquerable pride, 
His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 

III. 
"Let the chamber be cleared." — the train 

disappeared — 
" Now call me the chief of the Haram 

guard." 
With Giafifir is none but his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 
" Haroun — wlien all the crowd that wait 
Are passed beyond the outer gate, 
(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 
My child Zuleika's face unveiled !) 
Hence, lead my daughter from her tower; 
Her fate is fixed this very hour : 
Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 
By me alone be duty taught ! " 
" Pacha! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way. 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
And downcast looked, and gently spake. 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire. 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 

" Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide. 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be. 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — let the old and weary sleep — 
I could not ; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep. 
With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart beat high 
Were irksome — for whate'er my mood. 
In sooth I love not solitude ; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke. 

And, as thou knowest that for me 



Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun, 
With whom revenge is virtue." 

Youfig's Revenge, 



Soon turns the Haram's grating key, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had fiown. 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
There lingered we, beguiled too long 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song; 2 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour^ 
Beat thy Divan's approaching b.our, 
To thee, and to my duty true. 
Warned by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, Father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 

IV. 

" Son of a slave " — the Pacha said — 
" From unbelieving mother bred. 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed. 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire. 
Would lend thee something of his fire! 
Thou, who would'st see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; 
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string! " 



No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 

At least that met old Giaftir's ear. 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

" Son of a slave ! — reproached with fear ! 

Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ? " 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 
And glances ev'n of more than ire 

Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 

And started ; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done; 
He saw rebellion there begun: 

" Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 

1 mark thee — and I know thee too; 

2 Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the 
East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 

3 Tambour. Turkish drum, which sounds at sun- 
rise, noon, and twilight. 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



393 



But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
But if thy beard had nianher length, 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I'd joy to see thee break a lance. 
Albeit against my own perchance." 

As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye returned him glance for glance, 
And proudly to his sire's was raised. 

Till Giaffir's quailed and shrunk 
askance^— 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
" Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy: 
I never loved him from his birth. 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no 

more — 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab i to my sight, 
Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here 1 
Sweet as the desert fountain's wave 
To lips just cooled in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now." 

VI. 
Fair, as the first that fell of womankind. 
When on that dread yet lovely serpent 
smiling, 
Whose image then was stamped upon her 
mind — 
But once beguiled — and ever more beguil- 
ing; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 
lo Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber 
given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams 
Elysian, 
And paints the lost on Earth revived in 
Heaven ; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts 
above ; 



' The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the 
compliment a hundred-fold) even more than they 
hate the Christians. 



Was she — the daughter of that rude old Chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of 
grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight. 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of Loveliness? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmarked by her 

alone ; 
The light of love, the purity of grace, 
The mind, the Music 2 breathing from her 

face, 3 
The heart whose softness harmonized the 

whole — 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 



2 This expression has met with objections. I will 
not refer to " Him who hath not Music in his soul," 
but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten 
seconds, the features of the woman whom he believes 
to be the most beautiful; and if he then does not 
comprehend fully what is feebly expressed in the 
above line, I shall be sorry for us both. For an elo- 
quent passage in the latest work of the first female 
writer of this, perhaps of any, age, on the analogy 
(and the immediate comparison excited by that 
analogy) between " painting and music," see vol. 
iii. cap. 10, De I'Alle^nagne. And is not this con- 
nection still stronger with the original than the copy ? 
With the coloring of Nature than of Art? After all, 
this is rather to be felt than described; still I think 
there are some who will understand it, at least they 
would have done had they beheld the countenance 
whose speaking harmony suggested the idea; for 
this passage is not drawn from imagination, but 
mem.ory, that mirror which Affliction dashes to the 
earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only 
beholds the reflection multiplied! — ["This morn- 
ing, a very pretty billet from the Stael. She has 
been pleased to be pleased with my slight eulogy in 
the note annexed to the ' Bride.' This is to be ac- 
counted for in several ways: — firstly, all women 
like all, or any praise; secondly, this was unex- 
pected, because I have never courted her; and, 
thirdly, as Scrub says, those who have been all 
their lives regularly praised, by regular critics, like 
a little variety, and are glad when any one goes out 
of his way to say a civil thing; and, fourthly, she 
is a very good-natured creature, which is the best 
reason, after all, and, perhaps the only one." — 
Byron's Diary, Dec. 7, 1813.] 

3 [Among the imputed plagiarisms so industri- 
ously hunted out in his writings, this line has been 
with somewhat more plausibility than is frequent in 
such charges, included; the lyric poet Lovelace 
having, it seems, written " The melody and music 
of her face." Sir Thomas Browne, too, in his Re- 
ligio Medici, says, " There is music even in beauty." 
The coincidence, no doubt, is worth observing, and 
the task of " tracking thus a favorite writer in the 
snow (as Dryden expresses it) of others," is some- 
times not unamusing: but to those who found upon 
such resemblances a general charge of plagiarism, 
we may apply what Sir Walter Scott says: — " It is 
a favorite theme of laborious dulness to trace such 



394 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently-budding breast ; 

At one kind word those arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and carest, 
Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
His purpose half within him melt: 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feel; 
Affection chained her to that heart ; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 

" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 
How dear this very day must tell, 

When I forget my own distress, 
In losing what I love so well, 
To bid thee with another dwell : 
Another ! and a braver man 
Was never seen in battle's van. 

We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 
But yet the line of Carasman i 

Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
First of the bold Timariot bands 

That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ; 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman. 
Which others tremble but to scan, 
And teach the messenger 2 what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 

And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 
All that thy sex hath need to know : 

'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 
The way to love, thy lord may show." 



In silence bowed the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was filled with tears 
That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 



coincidences, because they appear to reduce genius 
of the higher order to the usual standard of human- 
ity, and of course to bring the author nearer to a 
level with his critics." — Moore.\ 

1 Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the 
principal landholder in Turkey; he governs Mag- 
nesia: those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, pos- 
sess land on condition of service, are called Tima- 
riots: they serve as Spahis, according to the extent 
of territory, and bring a certain number into the 
field, generally cavalry. 

2 When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, 
the single messenger, who is always the first bearer 
of the order for his death, is strangled instead, and 
sometimes five or six, one after the other on the 
same errand, by command of the refractory patient; 
if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, 
kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, and is 
bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, sev- 



And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What could such be but maiden fears 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
Even Pity scarce can wish it less 1 
Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
Or if remembered, marked it not; 
Thrice clapped his hands, and called 
steed.s 

Resigned his gem-adorned chibouque 
And mounting featly for the mead, 

With Maugrabee 5 and Mamaluke, 

His way amid his Delis took,^ 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch well the Haram's massy doors. 



His head was leant upon his hand. 

His eye looked o'er the dark blue watei 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand. 
Nor even his Pacha's turbaned band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt'' 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor marked the javelin-darting crowd. 
Nor heard their OUahs^ wild and loud — 
He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter! 



No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 



eral of these presents were exhibited in the niche of 
the Seraglio gate; among others, the head of the 
Pacha of Bagdat, a brave young man, cut off by 
treachery after a desperate resistance. 

^ Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The 
Turks hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and 
they have no bells. 

* " Chibouque," the Turkish pipe of which the 
amber mouthpiece, and sometimes the ball which 
contains the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, 
if in possession of the wealthier orders. 

^ " Maugrabee," Moorish mercenaries. 

^ " Delis," bravos who form the forlorn hope of 
the cavalry, and always begin the action. 

^ A twisted fold oi felt is used for scimitar prac- 
tice by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms 
can cut through it at a single stroke: sometimes a 
tough turban is used for the same purpose. The 
jerreed is a game of bhmt javelins, animated and 
graceful. 

« " Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies," as the 
Spanish poets call them, the sound is Ollah; a cry 
of which the Turks, for a silent people, are some- 
what profuse, particularly during the jerreed, or in 
the chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation 
in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their 
pipes and comboloios, form an amusing contrast. 




The Bride of Abydos. 



THE BRIDE OF ABVDOS. 



395 



Still gazed he tlirough the lattice grate, 
Pale, mute, and mourntully sedate, 
To him Zuleika's eye was turned, 
But little from his aspect learned : 
Equal her grief, yet not the same; 
Her heart confes'sed a gentler flame : 
But yet that heart alarmed or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay? 
" How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 

And watched his eye — it still was fixed : 

Sha snatched the urn wherein was mixed 
The Persian Atar-gul's i perfume. 
And sprinkled all its odors o'er 
The pictured roof'^ and marble floor: 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The plavful girl's appeal addressed, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
" What, sullen yet ? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " 
She saw in curious order set 

The fi\irest flowers of eastern land — 
" He loved them once ; may touch them yet. 

If offered by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the Rose was plucked and wreathed ; 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul ^ bears ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try f >r once a strain more glad. 
With some faint hope his altered lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

XI. 

" What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 

And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? 
Oh, Selim dear! oh, more than dearest! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? 

1 " Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is 
the finest. 

2 The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of 
the Mussulman apartments are generally painted, 
in great houses, with one eternal and highly colored 
view of Constantinople, wherein the principal feat- 
ure is a noble contempt of perspective; below, 
arms, scimitars, etc. are in general fancifully and 
not»inelegantly disposed. 

3 It has been much doubted whether the notes of 
this " Lover of the rose " are sad or merry ; and Mr. 
Fox's remarks on the subject have provoked some 
learned controversy as to the opinions of the an- 
cients on the subject. I dare not venture a con- 
jecture on the point, though a little inclined to the 
" errare mallem," etc. if Mr. Fox was mistaken. 



Come, lay thy head upon my breast. 

And I will kiss thee into rest, 

Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 

Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 

I knew our sire at times was stern. 

But this from thee had yet to learn : 

Too well I know he loves thee not; 

But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 

Ah! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — 

This kinsman Bey of Carasman 

Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 

If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 

If shrines that ne'er approach allow 

To woman's step admit her vow. 

Without thy free consent, command, 

The Sultan should not have my hand ! 

Think'st thou that I could bear to part 

With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 

Ah ! were I severed from thy side, 

Where were thy friend — and who my 

guide ? 
Years have not seen. Time shall not see 
The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
Ev'n Azrael,4 from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must. 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust ! " 



He lived — he breathed — he moved— he 

felt. 
He raised the maid from where she kneh ; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt 
As the stream late concealed 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes revealed 

In the light of its billows ; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

From the black cloud that bound it, 
Flashed the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, ^ 

A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of iil-directed knife. 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, displayed, 
And all, before repressed, betrayed : 
" Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath. 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
That vow hath saved more heads than one ; 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That clusters round thy forehead fair. 



* " Azrael," the angel of death. 



396 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



For all the treasures buried far 

Within the caves of Istakar.i 

This morning clouds upon me lowered, 

Reproaches on my head were showered, 

And Giaffir almost called me coward ! 

Now I have motive to be brave ; 

The son of his neglected slave, 

Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave. 

May show, though little apt to vaunt, 

A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 

His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee, 

Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 

But let our plighted secret vow 

Be only known to us as now. 

I know the wretch who dares demand 

From Giafifir thy reluctant hand ; 

More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 

Holds not a Musselim's2 control : 

Was he not bred in Egripo ? 8 

A viler race let Israel show ; 

But let that pass — to none be told 

Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 

To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 

I've partisans for peril's day: 

Think not I am what I appear ; 

I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." 



" Think not thou art what thou appearest I 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 
My lov€ thou surely knew'st before. 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay. 

And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day ; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy Hps to kiss. 
Like this — and this — no more than this : 
For, Alia ! sure thy lips are fiame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
My own have nearly caught the same, 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth. 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by. 
And lighten half thy poverty; 
Do all but close thy dying eye, 
For that I could not live to try; 
To these alone my thoughts aspire: 
More can I do ? or thou require ? 



1 The treasures of the Pre-adamite Sultans. See 
D'Herbelot, article Istakar. 

^ " Musselim," a governor, the next in rank after 
a Pacha; a Waywode is the third; and then come 
the Agas. 

^ " Egripo," the Negropont. According to the 
proverb, the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, 
and the Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their 
respective races. 



But, Selim, thou must answer why 

We need so much of mystery ? 

The cause I cannot dream nor tell. 

But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well ; 

Yet what thou meanest by ' arms' anc 

' friends,' 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be what I have ever been ? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earhest hour ? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy ? 
These cherished thoughts with life begun, 

Say, why must I no more avow? 
What change is wrought to make me 
shun 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till now ?! 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
No ! happier made by that decree, 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compelled : 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good ; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah 1 forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why, I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime. 

And such it feels'while lurking here ; 
Oh, Selim 1 tell me yet in time. 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar,* 
My father leaves the mimic war; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 

XIV. 

" Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet : 

And now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, impost, levies, state. 

There's fearful news from Danube's banks, 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks. 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 

Our Sultan hath a shorter way 

Such costly triumph to repay. 

But, mark me, when the twilight drum 



* "Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who pre- 
cedes a man of authority. 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



397 



Hath warned the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come : 
Then softly from the haram creep 
Where we may wander by the det.p: 
Our garden-battlements are steep ; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel, 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before. 



Trust me, Zulcika — fear not me ! 
Thou knowest I hold a Haram key." 

" Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
Did word like this — " 

" Delay not thou ; 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of w<?r^ reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
I am not, love ! what I appear." 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



The winds are high on Helle's wave, 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave. 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam. 
And shrieking sea-birds warned him home ; 
And clouds aloft and tides below. 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 
He could not see, he would not hear, 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love. 
The only star it hailed above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
" Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! " — 
That tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 

11. 

The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 

And Night's descendnig shadows hide 
That field with blood bedewed in vain. 

The desert of old Priam's pride; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 

All — save immortal dreams that could be- 
guile 

The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 

III. 

Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have pressed the sacred shore, 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
Minstrel 1 with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
And that around the undoubted scene 



Thine own " broad Hellespont " i still 
dashes. 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 
The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme : 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam. 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him wh felt the Dardan's arrow : 
Tha. mighty heap of gathere " ground 
Which Amnions son ran pr udly round,'^ 
By nations raised, by monarchs crowned, 

Is ow a lone and nameless barrow! 

Within — - thy dwelling-place how narrow ! 
Without — cai only strangers breathe 
The nam' of him that zoas beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
But Thou — thy very dust is gone! 

V. 
Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 
The swain, and chase the boatman's fear: 



1 The ..rangling about diis epithet, "the broad 
Hellespont" r the "boundless Hellespont," 
whether it means one or the other, or what it means 
at all, has been beyond all possibility of detail. 1 
have even heard it disputed on the spot; and not 
foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the controversy, 
amused myself with swimming across it in the mean 
time; and probably may again, before the point is 
settled. Indeed, the question as to the, truth of " the 
tale of Troy divine " still continues, much of it rest- 
ing upon the tali^smanic word " aTreipo?: " probably 
Homer had the same notion of distance that a co- 
quette has of time; and when he talks of boundless, 
means half a mile; as the latter, by a like figure, 
when she says eternal attachment, simply specifies 
three weeks. 

2 Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the 
altar with laurel, etc. He was afterwards imitated 



398 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Till then — no beacon on the cliff 

May shape the course of struggling skiff; 

The scattered lights that skirt the bay, 

All, one by one, have died away; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber. 

And o'er her silken Ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber. 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; i 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet,'-^ 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text. 
Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
And l)y her comboloio 3 lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes; 
And many a bright emblazoned rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeemed from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; 
The richest work of Iran's loom. 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gathered in that gorgeous room : 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite. 
What doth she hence, and on sorude anight? 

VI. 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest. 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 

To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
As heaven itself to Selim dear. 



by Caracalla in his race. It is believed that the 
last also poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the 
sake of new Patroclaii games. I have seen the 
sheep feeding on the tombs of ^Esietes and Antilo- 
chus : the first is in the centre of t'.ie plain. 

^ When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a 
perfume, which is slight but not disagreeable. [On 
discovering that, in some of the early copies, the 
all-important monosyllable " not " had been omitted, 
Byron wrote to Mr. Murray, — " There is a diabol- 
ical mistake which must be corrected; it is the 
omission of ' not ' before disagreeable, in the note 
oi the amber rosary. This is really horrible, and 
nearly as bad as the stumble of mine at the threshold 
— I mean the Diisnomer of Bride. Pray do not let 
a copy go without the ' not: ' it is nonsense, and 
worse than nonsense. I wish the printer was sad- 
dled with a vampire."] 

" The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or en- 
closed in gold boxes, containing scraps from the 
Koran, worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still 
universal in the East. The Koorsee (throne) verse 
in the second cap. of the Koran describes the attri- 
butes of the Most High, and is engraved in this man- 
ner, and worn by the pious, as the most esteemed 
and ■iibliiue of all seiUcnces. 

•' '' Comboloio " — a Turkish rosary. The MSS., 
particularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned 
and illuminated. 'I'he Greek females are kept in 



With cautious steps the thicket threading. 
And starting oft, as through the glade 
The gust its hollow moanings made. 

Till on the smoother pathway treading, 

Mi)re free her timid bosom beat. 
The maid pursued her silent guide; 

And though her terror urged retreat, 
How could she quit her Selim's side ? 
How teach her tender lips to chide ? 



They reached at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune. 
And oft her Koran conned apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dreamed what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her Prophet had disdained to show; | 

But Selim's mansion was secure. 
Nor deemed she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss. 
Without her, most beloved in this ! 
Oh 1 who so dear with him could dwell ? 
What Houri soothe him half so well ? 

VIII. 
Since last she visited the spot 
Some change seemed wrought within the 

grot: 
It might be only that the night 
Disguised things seen by better light : 
That brazen lamp but dimly threw 
A ray of no celestial hue ; 
But in a nook within the cell 
Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
There arms were piled, not such as wield 
The turbaned Delis in the field ; 
But brands of foreign blade anfl hilt, 
And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 
Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 
A cup too on the board was set 
That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
What may this mean ? she turned to see 
Her Selim — " Oh I can this be he ? " 

IX. 
His robe of pride was thrown aside. 

His brow no high-crowned turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red. 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore : 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem. 
No longer glittered at his waist. 
Where pistols unadorned were braced; 
And from his belt a sabre swung. 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 

utter ignorance; but many of the Turkish girls are 
highly accomplished, though not actually qualified 
for a Christian coterie. Perhaps some of our own 
" bines " might not be the worse for bleachmg. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



399 



That decks the wandering Candiote ; 
Beneatli — his golden plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
.Vith silvery scales were sheathed and 

bound. 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiong^e.i 

X. 

" I said I was not what I seemed ; 

And now thou see'st my words were true: 
I have a tale thou hast not dreamed. 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 'twere vain to hide, 
I must not see thee Osinan's bride : 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove: 
But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika ! I am not thy brother ! " 

XI. 

" Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
But know me all I was before. 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see! 
My breast is offered — take thy fill 1 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seemed thy foe; 
And I, alas! am Giaffir's child, 
For whom thou wert contemned, reviled. 
If not thy sister — would'st thou save 
My life, oh ! bid me be thy slave ! " 

XII. 
" My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine : 
Bat, gentle love, this transport calm. 
Thy lot shall yet be linked with mine ; 



* "Galiongee" — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a 
Turkish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks 
work the guns. Their dress is picturesque; and I 
have seen the Capitan Pacha more than once wear- 
ing It as a kind of zucog. Their legs, however, are 
generally naked. The buskins described in the 
text as sheathed behind with silver are those of an 
Arnaut robber, who was my host (he had quitted 
the profession) at his Pyrgo. near Gastouni in the 
Morea: they were placed in scales one over the 
othei like the back of an armadillo. 



I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran "■^ verse displayed 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both. 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change; but, my Zuleika, know. 
That tie is widened, not divided, 

Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Giaffir all 

That Selim late was deemed to thee; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And lulled me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He reared me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain ; 3 
He watched me like a lion's whelp. 

That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take; 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 
" How first their strife to rancor grew, 
If love or envy made them foes. 



2 The characters on all Turkish scimitars con- 
tain sometimes the name of the place of their manu- 
facture, but more generally a text from the Koran, 
in letters of gold. Amongst those in my possession 
is one with a blade of singular construction; it is 
very broad, and the edge notched into serpentine 
curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering of 
flame. I asked the Arminian who sold it, what 
possible use such a figure could add: he said, in 
Italian, that he did not know; but the Mussulmans 
had an idea that those of this form gave a severer 
wound; and liked it because it was " piu feroce." 
I did not much admire the reason, but bought it for 
its peculiarity. 

y It is to be observed, that every allusion to any 
thing or personage in the Old Testament, such as 
the Ark, or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussul- 
man and Jew : indeed, the former profess to be 
much better acquainted with the lives, true and 
fabulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by 
our own sacred writ; and not content with Adam, 
they have a biography of Pre- Adamites. Solomon 
is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a 
prophet inferior only to Christ and Alahomet. Zu- 
leika is the Persian nama of Potiphar's wife; and 
her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest 
poems in their language. It is, therefore, no viola- 
tion of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noali, 
into the mouth of a Moslem. — [Some doubt having 
been expressed by Mr. Murray, as to the propriety 
of putting the name of Cain into the mouth of a 
Mussulman, Byron sent him the preceding note — 
" for the benefit of the ignorant." " I don't care 

j one lump of sugar," he says, " for my poetvj'; but 
f )r my costume, and niv correctness on tho«€ points, 

I I will combat lustily."] 



400 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



It matters little if I knew ; 

In fiery spirits, sliglits, thoug'h few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remembered yet in Bosniac song. 
And Paswan's i rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest : 
His death is all I need relate, 
The stern effect of Giafifir's hate ; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me 
free. 

XIV. 
" When Paswan, after years of strife. 
At last for power, but first for life. 
In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command, 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They gave their horse-tails"-^ to the wind. 

And mustering in Sophia's plain 
Theirtents were pitched, their post assigned ; 

To one, alas ! assigned in vain ! 
What need of words ? the deadly bowl. 

By Giafifir's order drugged and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismissed Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath. 

He, when the hunter's sport was up. 
But little deemed a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught^ nor needed more ! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

XV. 
" The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppressed, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalick was gained : — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honors were obtained. 
By him a brother's murder stained; 
'Tis true, the purchase nearly drained 
His ill got treasure, soon replaced. 
Would'st question whence ? Survey the 

waste, 
And ask the squalid peasant how 



^ Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin; who, for 
tlie last years of his life, «et the whole power of the 
Porte at defiance. 

- " Horse-tail," the standard of a Pacha. 

^ Giafifir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I 
am not sure wliich, was actually taken off by the 
Albanian AH, in the manner described in the text. 
Ali Pacha, wliile T was in the country, married the 
daughter of his victim, some years after the event 
had taken place at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianopie. 
The poison was mixed in the cup of coffee, which 
is presented before the sherbet by the bath-keeper, 
alter dressing. 



His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 
Why me the stern usurper spared. 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none. 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace : 
He cannot curb his haughty mood. 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI. 

"Within thy father's house are foes; 

Not all who break his bread are true : 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few: 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah's palace grew. 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him die : 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betrayed, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate. 
He led me helpless to his gate, 

And not in vain it seems essayed 

To save the life for which he prayed. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me; 
Thus Giaffir's safety was insured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains. 
From which the captive gladly steals. 
And this and more to me reveals^ 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends! 

XVII. 

" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds. 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear: this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn. 

Is leader of those pirate hordes. 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 
Those arms thou see'st my band have 
brought, 



i 



THE BRIDE GE ABYDOS. 



401 



The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is filled — once quaffed, they ne'er repine : 
Our prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They're only infidels in wine. 

XVIII. 
" What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 
And taunted to a wish to roam ; 
And listless left — for Giaftir's fear 
Denied the courser and the spear — 
Though oft — Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! — 
In full Divan the despot scoffed, 
As if 7}iy weak unwilling hand 
Refused the bridle or the brand : 
Ke ever went to war alone, 
And pent me here untried — unknown ; 
To Haroun's care with women left. 
By hope unblest, of fame bereft, 
While thou — whose softness long endeared, 
Though it unmanned me, still had cheered — 
To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
Awaited'st there the field's event. 
Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke. 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
'Tis vain — my tongue can not impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart. 
When first this liberated eye 
Surveyed Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
The World — nay, Heaven itself was mine ! 

XIX. 

" The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Conveyed me from this idle shore ; 
I longed to see the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
I sought by turns, and saw them all ; - 

But when and where I joined the crew. 
With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall, 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee, M'hen the tale's complete. 



*Tis true, they are a lawless brood. 

But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 

And every creed, and every race. 

With them hath found — may find a place : 

But open speech, and ready hand, 

Obedience to their chiefs command, 



^ The Turkish notions of almost all islands are 
confined to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 



A soul for every enterprise. 
That never sees with Terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vowed for those who fall. 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than ev'n my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguished from the vulgar rank, 
But chiefly to my council call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire, 
The last of Lambro's 2 patriots there 
Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate. 
To snatch the Rayahs 3 from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew; 
I have a love for freedom too. 
Ay! let me like the ocean-Patriarch 4 roam. 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home! ^ 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea. 
Are more than cities and Serais to me : 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
Across the desert, or before the gale. 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, 

my prow. 
But be the star that guides the wanderer. 

Thou ! 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! ^ 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 



2 Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts, 
in 1789-90, for the independence of his countiy. 
Abandoned bjr the Russians, he became a pirate, 
and the Archipelago was the scene of his enter- 
prises. He is said to be still alive at Petersburg. 
He and Riga are the two most celebrated of the 
Greek revolutionists. 

=*" Rayahs," — all who pay the capitation tax, 
called the " Haratch." 

■* The first of voyages is one of the few with which 
the Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

5 The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and 
Turkomans, will be found well detailed in any book 
of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm 
peculiar to itself, cannot be denied. A young 
French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that 
he never found himself alone, galloping in the 
desert, without a sensation approaching to rapture 
which was indescribable. 

'' [The longest, as well as most splendid, of those 
passages, with which the perusal of his own strains, 
during revision, inspired him, was that rich flow of 
eloquent feeling which follows thecouplet, — "Thou, 
my Zuleika, share and bless my bark," etc. — a 
strain of poetry, which, for energy and tenderness 
of thought, for music of versification, and select- 
ness of diction, has. throughout the greater portion 
of it, but few rivals in either ancient or modern 
song. — Moore. '\ 



402 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's 

wall 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call ; 
Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 
That steals the trembling tear of speechless 

praise ; 
Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears, 
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice 

endears. 
For thee in those bright isles is built a 

bower 
Blooming as Aden i in its earliest hour, 
A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and 

hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy com- 
mand ! 
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side. 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
Are well resigned for cares — for joys like 

these : 
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
Unnumbered perils, — but one only love! 
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful 

still! 
Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown.; 
To thee be Selim's tender as thine' own ; 
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
Blend every thought, do all — but disunite! 
Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide ; 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
Yet there we follow but the bent assigned 
By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 
Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests 

cease ! 
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace! 
I like the rest must use my skill or strength, 
But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 
Power sways but by division — her resource 
The blest alternative of fraud or force ! 
Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 
When cities cage us in a social home : 
There even thy soul might err — how oft the 

heart 
Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 
And woman, more than man, when death or 

.woe, 
Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, 
Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame — 
Away suspicion ! — ?/of Zuleika's name ! 
But life is hazard at the best ; and here 
No moie remains to win, and much to fear: 
Yes, fear!— the doubt, the dread of losing 

thee, 
By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree. 
That dread shall vanish with the favoring gale, 



1 " Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the 
Mussulman paradise. 



Which love to-night hath promised to my 

sail : 
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath 

blest. 
Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath 

charms, 
Earth — sea alike— our world within our arms J 
Ay ! — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
So that those arms cling closer round my 

neck : 
The deepest murmur of this lip shall De 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
The war of elements no fears impart 
To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art : 
There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 
Here moments menace — there are years of 

wreck ! 
But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's 

shape ! 
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
Few words remain of mine my tale to close : 
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 
Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline ? 
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 



" His head and faith from doubt and death 

Returned in time my guard to save ; 

Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while : 
And since, though parted from my band, 
Too seldom now I leave the land, 
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere I have heard and doomed it too: 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 
But now too long Fve held thine ear; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance, h/s life who gave thee thine, 
With me, this hour away — away! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appalled by truths imparted now, 
Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on wy head ! " 



Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
Stood like tliat statue of distress, 
When, her last hope for ever gone. 
The mother haidened into. stone; 
All in the maid that eye could see 
Was but a younger Niobe. 
But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
Essayed to speak, or look reply, 
Beneath the garden's wicket porch 



THE BRIDE OF ABVDOS. 



403 



f'ar flashed on high a blazing torch ! 
Another — and another — and another — 
"Oh! fly — no more — yet now my more 

than brother ! " 
Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
And last of all, his sabre waving. 
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless he stood — " "Tis come — soon 

past — 
One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last: 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see tlie flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash : 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept ; 

His pistol's echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumbed her breast and eye ! — 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 

Yet stay within — here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire 
If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No — though by him that poison poured : 
No — though again he call me coward! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No — as each crest save his may feel ! " 

XXIV. 
One bound he made, and gained the sand. 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate 
strength — 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay. 
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land! 



They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water. 

XXV. 

Escaped from shot, unharmed by steel, 

Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 

Had Selim won, betrayed, beset, 

To where the strand and Ijillows met; 

There as his last step left the land. 

And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 

Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took. 

Hath doomed his death.or fixed his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain. 
How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray ; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay. 
When, at the instant, hissed the ball — 
" So may the foes of Giafifir fall I " 
Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang. 
Too nearly, deadly aimed to err ? 
'Tis thine — Abdallah's Murderer! 
The father slowly rued thy hate. 
The son hath found a quicker fate : 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
If aught his lips essayed to groan. 
The rushing billows choked the tone ! 

XXVI. 

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear. 
And fragments of each shivered brand; 
Steps stamped ; and dashed into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be marked ; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an oarless boat; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 

But where is he who wore ? 
Ye! who would o'er his relics weep. 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burthen round Sigreum's steep 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay. 
As shaken on his nstless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife. 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then levelled with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 



404 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



The bird that tears that prostrate form 

Hath only robbed the meaner worm ; 

The only heart, tlie only eye 

Had bled or wept to see him die, 

Had Seen those scattered limbs composed, 

An 1 mourned above his turban stone.i 
That heart hath burst — that eye was 
closed — 

Yea — closed before his own ! 

XXVII. 
Ry Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale. 
Zuleika ! last of Giafhr's race, 

Thy destined lord is come too late: 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face! 

Can he not hear 
Tiie loud Wul-wulleh2 warn his distant ear ? 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale. 

Tell him thy tale ! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 
He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine 
all — 
And that last thought on him thou could'st 
not save 

Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still. 
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave 1 
Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
That grief— though deep — though fatal — 

was thy first I 
Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, re- 
morse ! 
And, oh ! that pang where more than Mad- 
ness lies! 
The worm that will not sleep — and never 

dies ; 
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the 

light. 
That winds around and tears the quivering 

heart ! 
Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head. 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy Umbs dost 

spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed. 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed. 



1 A turban is carved in stone above the graves of 
^iien only. 

- The death-song of the Turkish women. The 
" silent slaves " are the men, whose notions of 
decorum forbid complaint iti public. 



Thy Daughter's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
The Star hath set that shone on Helle's 
stream. 
What quenched its ray ? — the blood that thou 

hast shed ! 
Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair : 
" Where is my child ? " — an Echo answers — 
" Where ? " 3 

XXVIII. 

Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms, 

And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stamped with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited Love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Ev'n in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
It looks as planted by Despair — 

So white — so faint — the shghtest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears. 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower. 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour. 
And buds unsheltered by a bower ; 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her 
shower, 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entracing note ! 
It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, 

Though mournful , pours not such a strain ; 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve, 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'Tis sorrow so unmixed with dread, 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

3 " I came to the place of my birth, and cried, 
' The friends of my youth, where are they? ' and an 
Echo answered, ' Where are they ? ' " — From an 
Arabic MS. The above quotation (from which 
the idea in the text is taken) must be already famil- 
iar to every reader: it is given in the first annota- 
tion, p. 67, of " "The Pleasures of Memory ; " a poem 
so well known as to render a reference almost super- 
fluous; but to whose pages all will be delighted to 
recur. 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



405 



He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe, 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 

Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable i its sound 

Into Zuleika's name. 2 



1 " And airy tongues that syllable men's names." 

Milton. 
For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the 
form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord 
Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of 
Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the 
shape of a raven (see Orford's Reminiscences), and 
many other instances, bring this superstition nearer 
home. The most singular was the whim of a Wor- 
cester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in 
the shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her 
pew in the cathedral with cages full of the kind; 
and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautify- 
ing tlie church, no objection was made to her harm- 
less folly. For this anecdote, see Orford's Letters. 

2 [The heroine of this poem, the blooming Zuleika, 
is all purity and loveliness. Never was a faultless 
character more delicately or more justly delineated. 
Her piety, her intelligence, her strict sense of duty, 
and her undeviating love of truth, appear to have 
been originally blended in her mind, rather than 
inculcated by education. She is always natural, 
always attractive, always affectionate; and it must 
be admitted that her affections are not unworthily 
bestowed. Selim, while an orphan and dependant, 
is never degraded by calamity ; when better hopes 
are presented to him, his buoyant spirit rises with 
his expectations: he is enterprising, with no more 
rashness than becomes his youth; and when disap- 
pointed in the success of a well concerted project, 
he meets, with intrepidity, the fate to which he is 
exposed through his own generous forbearance. To 
us, " The Bride of Abydos " appears to be, in every 
respect, superior to " The Giaour," though, in point 
of diction, it has been, perhaps, less warmly admired. 
We will not argue this point, but will simply ob- 



'Tis from her cypress summit heard, 
That melts in air the liquid word : 
*Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep fixed pillar to the shore; 
For there, as Helie's legends tell. 
Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell ; 
Lashed by the tumbling tide, whcse wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave : 
And there by night, reclined, 'tis said. 
Is seen a ghastly turbaned head: 
And hence extended by the billow, 
'Tisnamedthe" Pirate-phantom'spillow I " 
Where first it lay that mourning flower 
Hath flourished ; fiourisheth this hour. 
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale ! 3 



serve, that what is read with ease is generally read 
with rapidity; and that many beauties of style which 
escape observation In a simple and connected nar- 
rative, would be forced on the reader's attention by 
abrupt and perplexing transitions. It is only when 
a traveller is obliged to stop on his journey, that he 
is disposed to examine and admire the prospect. 
— George Ellis.'\ 

3 [" The ' Bride,' such as it is, is my first e7itire 
composition of any length (except the Satire, and 
be d — d to it), for the 'Giaour' is but a string of 
passages, and ' Chllde Harold ' is, and I rather 
think always will be, unconcluded." " It was pub- 
lished on Thursday, the 2d of December; but how It 
Is liked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not, 
is no fault of the public, against whom I can have 
no complaint. But I am much more indebted to the 
tale than I can ever be to the most important reader ; 
as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imngina- 
tion; from selfish regrets to vivid recollections; 
and recalled me to a country replete with the 
brightest and darkest, but always most lively colors 
of my memory." — Byron^s Z>/ary, December 5, 
1813.J 



THE CORSAIR: A TALE» 



■" I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno." 

Tasso, Gerusalemme Liberata, canto x. 



TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 

My dear Moore: — I dedicate to you the last production with which I shall trespass on public 
patience, and your indulgence, for some years; and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of this late- 
est and only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public principle, 
and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her patriots; 
while you stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, 
permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he had lost before it com- 
menced, to add the humble but sincere sufifrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It 
will at least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your society, nor 
abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your 
friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the 
composition of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do those scenes so much justice. 
The wrongs of your own country,- the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of 
her daughters, may there be found; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, 
was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, 
and less clouded sky; but wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part of your national claim of orien- 
tal descent, to v^^hich you have already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of 
your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable, 
— Self? I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now 
meditate; but, for some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further the award of" God.s, men, 
nor columns." In the present composition I have attempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, the best 
adapted measure to our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spen- 
ser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative; though, I confess, it is the measure most after my own 

1 The time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences, but the whole of the iEgean isles are 
within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the ivhid as I have 
often found it, 

2 [This political allusion having been objected to by a friend, Byron sent a second dedication to Mr. 
Moore, with a request that he would " take his choice." It ran as follows: — 

January 7th, 1814. 
" Mv DEAR Moore: — I had written to you a long letter of dedication, which I suppress, because, 
though it contained something relating to you, which every one had been glad to hear, yet there was too 
much about politics, and poesy, and all things whatsoever, ending with that topic on which most men 
are fluent, and none very amusing, — 07ie^s self. It might have been rewritten; but to what purpose? 
My praise could add nothing to your well-enrned and firmly established fame; and with my most hearty 
admiration of your talents, and delight in your conversation, you are already acquainted. In availing 
myself of your friendly permission to inscribe this poem to you, I can only wish the offering were as 
worthy your acceptance, as your regard is dear to 

•' Yours, most affectionately and faithfully, 

" Byron."] 



THE CORSAIR. 407 



heart: Scott alone,^ of the present generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of 
the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius: in blank verse, 
Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the 
rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular measure 
certainly; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I 
shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance oi\ce more with that versification, in which I 
have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present, and 
will be of my future regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my person- 
ages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticized, and considered 
no less responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so — if I have devi- 
ated into the gloomy vanity of " drawing from self," the pictures are probably like, since they are unfa- 
vorable; and if not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest in 
undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintance should think the author better 
than the beings of his imagining; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd 
critical exceptions in the present instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, I allow) in very 
reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, neverthe- 
less, might be found with little more morality than "The Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I must 
admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and as to his identity, those who like it must give 
him whatever " alias " they please.* 

If, however, it were worth while to remove the impression, it might be of some service to me, that the 
man who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his 
own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself 

Most truly and affectionately, his obedient servant, 

January 2, 1814. BYRON. 



INTRODUCTION. 



"The Corsair" was begun on the i8th, and finished on the 31st, of December, 1813; a rapidity of 
composition seldom paralleled in literary history. Byron states it to have been written " con amore, 
and very much from existence." In the original MS. the chief fem.ale character was called Francesca, 
in whose person the author meant to delineate one of his acquaintance; but, while the work was at 
press, he changed the name to Aledora. In his journal, soon after the publication of the poem, he made 
the following entry: " Hobhouse told me an odd report, — that / am the actual Conrad, the veritable 
Corsair, and that part of my travels are supposed to have passed in piracy. Um! — people sometimes 
hit near the truth, but never the whole truth, H. don't know what I was about the year after I left the 
Levant; nor does anyone — nor — nor — nor — however, it is a lie — but ' I doubt the equivocation of 
the fiend that lies like truth ! ' " He mentioned the report to a female acquaintance, who replied, " I 
don't wonder, Conrad is so like.^' Upon which Byron remarks that if she knew nothing, no one else 
could. These dark allusions are probably mere mystificatioijs. 

The success of the Corsair was immense. Fourteen thousand copies were sold in one day.' 

^ [After the words of "Scott alone," Byron had inserted, in a parenthesis — "He will excuse the 
^Mr.'' — we do not say Mr. Caesar."] 

- [It is difficult to say whether we are to receive this passage as an admission or a denial of the opin- 
ion to which it refers; but Lord Byron certainly did the public injustice, if he supposed it imputed 
to him the criminal actions with which many of his heroes were stained. Men no more expected to 
meet in Lord Byron the Corsair, who " knew himself a villain," than they looked for the hypocrisy 
of Kehama on the shores of the Derwenl Water, or the profligacy of Marmion on the banks of the 
Tweed. — Sir Walter Scott. '\ 



408 



THE CORSAIR 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



nessun maggior dolore, 



Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 

Nella miseria, " 

Dante. 



I. 

" O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as 

free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving 

wave ; 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure can- 
not please — 
Oh, who can tell,^ save he whose heart hath 

tried. 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening 

play. 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight. 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than 

zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 
No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of 

life — 
When lost — what recks it — by disease or 

strife ? 
Let him who crawls enamoured of decay 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied 

head ; 
Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul. 
Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes 

control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loathed his life may gild his 

grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed. 
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our 

dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regrets supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 



When those who win at length divide the prey, 
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each 

brow. 
How had the brave who fell exulted now/" 

11. 

Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle 
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while : 
Such were the sounds that thrilled the rocks 

along. 
And unto ears as rugged seemed a song ! 
In scattered groups upon the golden sand, 
They game — carouse — converse — or whet 

the brand; 
Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 
While others straggling muse along the shore ; 
For the wild bird the busy springes set. 
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; 
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 
And marvel where they next shall seize a 

spoil : 
No matter where — their chiefs allotment this ; 
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 
But who that Chief? his name on every 

shore 
Is famed and feared — they ask and know no 

more. 
With these he mingles not but to command; 
Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess. 
But they forgive his silence for success. 
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 
That goblet passes him untasted still — 
And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
Would that, in turn, have passed untasted too ; 
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest 

roots. 
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 
His short repast in humbleness supply 
With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
His mind seems nourished by that abstinence. 
"Steer to that shore ! " — they sail. "Do 

this! " 'tis done : 
"Now form and follow me!" — the spoil is 

won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 



THE CORSAIR 



400 



To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 



"A sail! — a sail!" — a promised prize to 
Hope ! 

Her nation — flag — how speaks the tele- 
scope? 

No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 

The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 

Yes — she is ours — a home returning bark — 

Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the 
dark. 

Already doubled is the cape — our bay 

Receives that prow which proudly spurns the 
spray. 

How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 

Her white wings flying — never from her 
foes — 

She walks the water like a thing of life, 

And seems to dare the elements to strife. 

Who would not brave the battle-fire — the 
wreck — 

To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 



Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
The sails are furled ; and anchoring round she 

swings : 
And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat descending from the latticed stern, 
'Tis manned — the oars keep concert to the 

strand, 
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
Hail to the welcome shout ! — the fi-iendly 

speech ! 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 
The smile, the question, and the quick reply. 
And the heart's promise of festivity ! 



The tidings spread, and gathering grows the 

crowd ; 
The hum of voices, and tlie laughter loud. 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each 

dear word : 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents 

bless ? 
From where the battle roars — the billows 

chafe — 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise. 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes ! " 

VI. 

" Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
And doubt that joy — which hails our com- 
ing — short; 
Yet thus sincere •— 'tis cheering, though so 
brief; 



But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 
Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return, 
And all shall hear what each may wish to 

learn." 
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way. 
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the 

bay, 
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 
And freshness breathing from each silver 

spring. 
Whose scattered streams from granite basins 

burst. 
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
From crag to cliff they mount — Near yonder 

cave. 
What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
In pensive posture leaning on the brand. 
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? 
"'Tis he — 'tis Conrad— here — as wont — 

alone ; 
On — Juan! — on — and make our purpose 

known. 
The bark he views — and tell him we would 

greet 
His ears with tidings he must quickly meet : 
We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his 

mood. 
When strange or uninvited steps intrude. " 

.VII. 
Him Juan sought, and told of their intent ; — 
He spake not — but a sign expressed assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
" These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — 

the spy, 
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report, 
Much that" — "Peace, peace!" — he cuts 

their prating short. 
Wondering they turn, abashed, while each to 

each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They watch his glance with many a stealing 

look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guessed, with head aside. 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or 

pride. 
He read the scroll — "My tablets, Juan, 

hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo ? " 

" In the anchored bark." 
"There let him stay — to him this order 

bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
" To-night, Lord Conrad ? " 

" Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we 

are gone. 



410 



THE CORSAIR. 



Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust k 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust; 
Be the edge sharpened of my boarding-brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the Armourer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay's expired." 

VIII. 
They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides ; 
And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to 

sigh; 
Whose name appalls the fiercest of his crew. 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower 

hue ; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding 

art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
What should it be, that thus their faith can 

bind? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the 

Mind! 
Linked with success, assumed and kept with 

skill. 
That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these 

unknown 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his 

own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the 

sun 
The many still must labor for the one ! 
'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who 

toils, 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains. 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
Demons in act, but Gods at least in face. 
In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of 

fire : 
Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again. 
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulvar 



' [In the features of Conrad, those who have 
looked upon Lord Byron will recognize some like- 
ness; and the ascetic regimen which the noble poet 
himself observed, was no less marked in the pre- 
ceding description of Conrad's fare. To what are 
we to ascribe the singular peculiarity which induced 



They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and 

pale 
The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce 

conceals. 
Though smooth his voice and calm his gen* 

eral mien. 
Still seems there something he would no.t 

have seen ; 
His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
At times attracted, yet perplexed the view, • / 
As if within that murkiness of mind . ; 

Worked feelings fearful, and yet undefined; 
Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
There breathe but few whose aspect might 

defy 
The full encounter of his searching eye : 
He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would 

seek 
To probe his heart and watch his changing 

cheek. 
At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
Some secret thought, than drag that chiefs 

to-dav. 



an author of such talent, and so well skilled in trac- 
ing the darker impressions which guilt and remorse 
leave on the human character, so frequently to affix 
features peculiar to himself to the robbers and cor- 
sairs which he sketched with a pencil as forcible as 
that of Salvator? More than one answer may be 
returned to this question; nor do we pretend to say 
which is best warranted by the facts. The practice 
may arise from a temperament which radical and 
constitutional melancholy had, as in the case of 
Hamlet, predisposed to identify its owner with scenes 
of that deep and amazing interest which arises from 
the stings of conscience contending with the stub- 
born energy of pride, and delighting to be placed in 
supposed situations of guilt and danger, as some 
men love instinctively to tread the giddy edge of a 
precipice, or, holding hy some frail twig, to stoop 
forward over the abyss into which the dark torrent 
discharges itself. Or, it may be that these disguises 
were assumed capriciously, as a man might choosd 
the cloak, poniard, and dark lantern of a bravo, for 
his disguise at a masquerade. Or, feeling his own 
powers in painting the sombre and the horrible, , 
Lord Byron assumed in his fervor the very sem- 
blance of the characters he describes; like an actor 
who presents on the stage at once his own person 
and the tragic character with which for the time he 
is invested. Nor, is it altogether incompatible with 
his character to believe that, in contempt of the 
criticisms which, on this account, had attended 
" Childe Harold" he was determined to show the 
public how little he was affected by them, and how 
effectually it was in his power to compel attention 
and respect, even when imparting a portion of his 
own likeness and his own peculiarities, to pirates 
and outlaws. — Sir IValter Scoti.'\ 



THE CORSAIR. 



411 



There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 
That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
Hope withering fled — and Mercy sighed fare- 
well ! 1 

X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought. 
Within — within — 'twas there the spirit 

wrought ! 
Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, 

Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the governed aspect, speak alone 
Of det'per passions ; and to judge their mien, 
He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tiead, the upward eye. 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony. 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the 

heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not 

depart : 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze 

or glow. 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest 

not, 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom 

sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 

XI. 
Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 

1 That Conrad is a character not altogether out 
of nature, I shall attempt to prove by some histori- 
cal coincidences which I have met with since writ- 
ing " The Corsair." 

" Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandiiii, " s'enfer- 
moit dans un silence menacjint, il fixoit sur la terre 
son visage feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa 
profonde indignation. De toutes partes cependant 
les soldats et les peuples accouroient; ils vouloient 
voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie univer- 
selle eclatoit de toutes partes." * * * " Eccelin 
etoit d'une petite taille; mais tout I'aspect de sa 
personne, tons ses mouvemens, indiquoient un sol- 
dat. — Son langage etoit amer, son deportement 
superbe — et par son seul regard, il faisoit trembler 
les plus hardis." — Sismondi, tome iii. p. 219. 

Again, " Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Van- 
dals, the conqueror of both Carthage and Rome), 
staturi mediocris, et equi casu claudicans, animo 
profundus, sermone rarus, luxuria: contemptor, ira 
turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes 
providentissimus," etc. etc. — Jornandes de Rebus 
Geticis, c. :^3. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to 
keep in countenance my Giaour and Corsair, 



His soul was changed, before his deeds had 

driven 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
Warped by the world in Disappointment's 

school. 
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe. 
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill. 
And not the traitors who betrayed him still ; 
Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men 
Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
Feared — shunned — belied — ere youth had 

lost her force, 
He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain — but he deemed 
The rest no better than the thing he seemed ; 
And scorned the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loathed him, crouched and 

dreaded too. 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from all contempt : 
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
But they that feared him dared not to despise : 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake; 
The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 
The last expires — but leaves no living foe; 
Fast to the doomed offender's form it clings. 
And he may crush — not conquer — still it 

stings. 

XII. 

None are all evil — quickening round his heart 
One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove. 
And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 
Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 
Though fairest captives daily met his eye. 
He shunned, nor sought, but coldly passed 

them by ; 
Though many a beauty drooped in prisoned 

bower, 
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress, 
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 
And yet — Oh more than all! — untired by 

time ; 
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile. 
Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
Which still would meet with joy, with caJm- 

ness part, 



412 



THE CORSAIR. 



Lest that his look of grief should reach her 

heart ; 
Which nought removed, nor menaced to 

remove — 
If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
On him — but not the. passion, nor its power, 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone. 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 

XIII. 
He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Passed the first winding downward to the glen. 
" Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
'Tis lash to meet, but surer death to wait 
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile. 
We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 
Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their 

dreams, 
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant 

beams 
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou 

breeze!) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 
Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 
Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are 

brave ! 
Even insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
This common courage which with brutes we 

share, 
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair. 
Small merit claims — but 'twas my nobler hope 
To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed ; 
No medium now — we perish or succeed! 
So let it be — it irks me not to die ; 
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
My lot hath long had little of my care, 
But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 
Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 
Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 



Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reached the summit of his tower-crowned 

hill: 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they 

rung. 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung: 



Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells. 
Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 



Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
Then trembles into silence as before. 



" There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 

Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 



" Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my 
grave 
Without one thought whose relics there 
recline. 
The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 



My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 

Then give me all I ever asked — a tear. 
The first — last — sole reward of so much 
love! " 

He passed the portal — crossed the corridore, 
And reached the chamber as the strain gave 

o'er: 
" My own Medora! sure thy song is sad — " 

" In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it 

glad? 
Without thine ear to listen to my lay. 
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul 

betray : 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
My heart unhushed — although my lips were 

mute. 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 
My dreaming fear with storms hath winged 

the wind 
And deemed the breath that faintly fanned 

thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though soft, it seemed the low prophetic dirge. 
That mourned thee floating on the savage 

surge : 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire. 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
And many a restless hour outwatched each 

star. 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew. 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears — my truth — my 

vow ! 
At length — 'twas noon — I hailed and blest 

the mast 
That met my sight — it neared — Alas ! it past ! 
Another came — Oh God ! 'twas thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou 

ne'er. 



THE CORSAIR. 



413 



My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many 

a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam : 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for 

strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will ! " i 

'Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long 

been changed; 
Worm - like 'twas trampled — adder - like 

avenged. 
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Yet the same feeling which thou dost con- 
demn. 
My very love to thee is hate to them, 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind : 
Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love will last ; 
But — Oh, Medora! nerve thy gentler heart. 
This hour again — but not for long — we part." 

"This hour we part! — my heart foreboded 

this : 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 
Yon bark hath hardly anchored in the bay ; 
Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
Have need of rest before they toil anew : 
My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and 

wouldst steel 
My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
But trifle now no more with my distress, 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 
The feast these hands delighed to prepare ; 
Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare! 
See, I have plucked the fruit that promised 

best, 
And where not sure, perplexed, but pleased, 

I guessed 
At such as seemed the fairest ; thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow. 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 



1 [Lord Byron has made a fine use of the gentle- 
ness and submission of the females of these regions, 
as contrasted with the lordly pride and martial 
ferocity of the men: and though we suspect he has 
lent them more soul than of right belongs to them, 
as well as more delicacy and reflection; yet, there 
is something so true to female nature in general, in 
his representations of this sort, and so much of the 
oriental softness and acquiescence in his particular 
delineations, that it is scarcely possible to refuse 
the picture the praise of being characteristic and 
harmonious, as well as eminently sweet and beauti- 
ful in itself. — Jeffrey. '\ 



The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Thou more than Moslem when the cup ap- 
pears : 
Think not 1 mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a pennance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
Is trimmed, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 
Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear. 
Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine 

ear, 
We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.2 
Why — thou wert worse than he who broke 

his vow 
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me 

now ; 
Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee 

smile. 
When the clear sky showed Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the 

while : 
And thus half sportive, half in fear, I said. 
Lest Time should raise that doubt to more 

than dread. 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
And he deceived me — for — he came again ! 

" Again — again — and oft again — my love ! 
If there be life below, and hope above, 
He will return — but now, the moments bring 
The time of parting with redoubled wing : 
The why — the where — what boots it now to 

tell 
Since all must end in that wild world — fare- 
well ! 
Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 
Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 
And here shall watch a more than wonted 

guard. 
For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 
Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 
Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee 

stay; 
And this thy comfort — that, when next we 

meet. 
Security shall make repose more sweet. 
List ! — 'tis the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 
One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! 
Adieu ! " 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his em- 
brace, 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
Which downcast drooped in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevelled charms; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full — that feeling seemed almost unfelt ! 



2 Orlando Furioso, Canto x. 



414 



THE CORSAIR. 



Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun! 
It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly pressed, 
Which mutely clasped, imploringly caressed ! 
And tottering to t'ne couch his bride he bore. 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more; 
Felt — that for him earth held but her alone. 
Kissed her cold forehead — turned — is Con- 
rad gone ? 

XV. 
"And is he gone? " — on sudden solitude 
How oft that fearful question will intrude! 
" 'Twas but an instant past — and here he 

stood ! 
And now" — without the portal's porch she 

rushed. 
And then at length her tears in freedom 

gushed ; 
Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her they 

fell; 
But still her lips refused to send — "Fare- 
well!" 
For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 
We promise — hope — believe — there breathes 

despair. 
O'er every feature of that still, pale face. 
Had sorrow fixed what time can ne'er erase : 
The tender blue of that large loving eye 
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 
Till — Oh, how far! — it caught a glimpse of 

him, 
And then it flowed — and phrenzied seemed 

to swim 
Through those long, dark, and glistening 

lashes dewed 
With drops of sadness oft to be renewed. 
" He's gone ! " — against her heart that hand 

is driven. 
Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to 

heaven ; 
She looked and saw the heaving of the main ; 
The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 
But turned with sickening soul within the 

gate — 
" It is no dream — and I am desolate! "1 

XVI. 

From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turned his 

head ; 
But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
His lone, but lovely dweUing on the steep. 
That hailed him first when homeward from 

the deep : 
And she — the dim and melancholy star, 
Whose ray of beauty reached him from afar. 
On her he must not gaze, he must not think. 



1 [We do not know any thing in poetry more 
beautiful or touching than this picture of their part- 
ing. — JeJ'rey.] 



There he might rest — but on Destruction's 

brink : 
Yet once almost he stopped —and nearly gave 
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave : 
But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears. 
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar; 
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast. 
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast. 
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those M'ho stem the surge ; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft. 
He marvelled how his heart could seem so 

soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his 

breast. 
He feels of all his former self possest; 
He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps 

reach 
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the 

beach. 
There checks his speed ; but pauses less to 

breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 
Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturbed by haste, to vulgar view : 
For well had Conrad learned to curb the 

crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserved the proud ; 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if 

seen : 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
All these he wielded to command assent: 
But where he wished to win, so well unbent, 
That kindness cancelled fear in those who 

heard, 
And others' gifts showed mean beside his 

word. 
When echoed to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood. 
He cared not what he softened, but subdued ; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved — than wha.? 

obeyed. 



XVII. 
Around him mustering ranged his ready 

all pre- 



' Are 



guard 
Before him. Juan stands 

pared ? " 
" They are — nay more — embarked : the latest 

boat 

Waits but my chief " 

\ " My sword, and my capote." 



THE CORSAIR. 



415 



Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders 

flung: 
"Call Pedro here I" He comes — and Conrad 

bends, 
With all the courtesy he deigned his friends; 
" Receive these tablets, and peruse with 

care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven 

there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall 

shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine ! " 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flashed the dipt oars, and sparkling with the 

stroke. 
Around the waves' phosphoric i brightness 

broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on deck he stands, — 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy 

hands — 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys. 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to 

praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower. 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 

1 By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every 
stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, 
is followed by a«slight flash like sheet lightning 
from the water. 



Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of 

day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — 

and ends ; 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the 

chart. 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
Passed the high headlands of each clustering 

isle 
To gain their port — long — long ere morn- 
ing smile ; 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow 

bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail — and mark how there 

supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem 

shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow passed by. 
And anchored where his ambush meant to 

lie; 
Screened from espial by the jutting cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipped for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While leaned their leader o'er the fretting 

flood. 
And calmly talked — and yet he talked of 

blood ! 



CANTO THE SECOND. 

" Conosceste i dubiosi desiri?" 

Dante. 



In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright. 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night: 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come. 
When he shall drag the fettered Rovers home ; 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word. 
His summoned prows collect along the coast. 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the 

boast. 
Already shared the captives and the prize. 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 



Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won I 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will. 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and 

seek 
To flesh their glowing valor on the Greek ; 
How well such deed becomes the turbaned 

brave — 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay. 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 



416 



THE CORSAIR. 



Revel and rout the evening hours beguiled, 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest 

cheer, 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 



High in his hall reclines the turbaned Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiets he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff, 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice i 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
The long chibouque's 2 dissolving cloud sup- 
ply. 
While dance the Almas 3 to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the 

dark ; 
And revellers may more securely ^leep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they 

must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than even the Pacha's 

boast. 

III. 
With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor. 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore: 
" A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest. " * 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seemed of hardship more than 

years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from 

fears. 
Vowed to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form his loose long robe was 

thrown. 



1 Coffee. 

2 " Chibouque," pipe. 
^ Dancing girls. 

•* It has been observed, that Conrad's entering 
disguised as a spy is out of nature. Perhaps so. 1 
find something not unlike it in history. — " Anxious 
to explore with his own eyes the state of the Van- 
dals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the color 
of hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his 
own ambassador; andGenseric was afterwards mor- 
tified by the discovery, that he had entertained and 
dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an 
anecdote may be rejected as an improbable fiction; 
but it is a fiction which would not have been imag- 
ined imless in the life of a hero." — See Gibbon'' s 
Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. i8o. 



And wrapt a breast bestowed on heaven alone ; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession manned. 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scanned; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allowed to speak. 

IV. 
" Whence com'st thou, Dervise ? " 

" From the outlaw's den, 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when ? " 
" From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's 

gains 
The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their 

chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and offered chance of flight; 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha! who can 

fear ? " 

" How speed the outlaws ? stand they well 
prepared. 

Their plundered wealth, and robber's rock, 
to guard. 

Dream they of this our preparation, doomed 

To view with fire their scorpion nest con- 
sumed ? " 

" Pacha! the fettered captive's mourning eye, 
That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 
I only heard the reckless waters roar, 
Those waves that would not bear me from the 

shore. 
I only marked the glorious sun and sky, 
Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 
And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom 

cheers, 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This may'st thou judge, at least, from my 

escape, 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
Else vainly had I prayed or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance: 
The careless guard that did not see me fly. 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh : 
Pacha! — my limbs are faint -^ and nature 

craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! 

Peace 
With all around ! — now grant repose — re- 
lease." 
" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — 

stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear? — 

obey! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall 

bring ; 



THE CORSAIR. 



417 



Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting : 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 
'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious 

man, 
Who looked not lovingly on that Divan ; 
Nor showed high relish for the banquet prest, 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 
' Twas but a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast : 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
The feast was ushered in — but sumptuous 

fare 
He shunned as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemned to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
" What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou 

suppose 
This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy 

foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred 

pledge, 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge. 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight 1 " 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's i laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friend or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to 

dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's 

throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone; 
Infringed our orders rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 
" Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away 1 
Ho ! treachery ! my guards I my scimitar ! 
The galleys feed the flames — and I afar! 
Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay 

him now 1 " 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light. 
Nor less his change of form appalled the 

sight : 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb^ 
Dashed his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mailed breast, and flashed his 

sabre's ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable 

plume, 



' The Dervises are in colleges, and of different 
orders, as the monks. 



More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler 

gloom. 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit 

sprite. 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for 

fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to 

swell — 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 2 
He saw their terror — checked the first de- 
spair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there. 
Since far too early and too well obeyed. 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made; 
He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
'Tis answered — "Well ye speed, my gallant 

crew ! 
Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
And deem design had left me single here ? " 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling 

sway 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay; 
Completes his fury, what their fear begun, 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 
The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its 

head : 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'envhelmed, with rage, 

surprise. 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow. 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight. 
He tore his beard', and foaming fled the fight ; 3 
For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate. 
And burst within — and it were death to wait; 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling 

— throws 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'er- 

flows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaimed how well he did the work of strife. 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 

2 " Zatanai," Satan. 

3 A common and not very novel effect of Mussul- 
man anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, p. 
24. " The Seraskicr received a wound in the thigh ; 
he plucked up his beard by the roots, because he 
was obliged to quit the field." 



418 



THE CORSAIR. 



" 'Tiswell — but Seyd escapes — and he must 

die — 
Much hath been done — but more remains to 

do — 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ? ' ' 

V. 

Quick at the word — they seized him each a 

torch, 
And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
A stern delight was fixed in Conrad's eye, 
But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 
Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
Knocked at that heart unmoved by battle's 

yell. 
" Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your 

lives 
One female form — remember — we have 

wives. 
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
But still we spared — must spare the weaker 

prey. 
Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
If at my word the helpless cease to live : 
Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the 

door. 
Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the 

floor; 
His breath choked gasping with the volumed 

smoke, 
But still from room to room his way he broke. 
They search — they find — they save : with 

lusty arms 
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms; 
Calm their loud fears; sustain their sinking 

frames 
With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
So well could Conrad tame their fiercest 

mood. 
And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
But )vho is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking pile and combat's wreck — 

away — 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? 
The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd ! 

VI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,i 
Few words to reassure the trembling fair-; 
For in that pause compassion snatched from 

war, 
The foe before retiring, fast and far. 
With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
First slowlier fled — then rallied — then with- 
stood. 



1 Gulnare, a female name; it means, literally, the 

flower of tlie pomegranate. 



This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how 

few. 
Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 
And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 
Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 
And flame for flame and blood for blood 

must tell, 
Tlie tide of triumph ebbs that flowed too 

well — 
When wrath returns to renovated strife. 
And those who fought for conquest strike for 

life. 
Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
His followers faint by freshening foes re- 
pelled : 
"One effort — one — to break the circling 

host!" 
They form — unite — charge — waver — all is 

lost! 
Within a narrower ring compressed, beset, 
Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle 

yet — 
Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more. 
Hemmed in — cut off — cleft down — and 

trampled o'er ; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
His last faint quittance rendering with his 

breath 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death 1 

VII. 

But first, ere came the rallying host to blows. 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed. 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed. 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestowed, 
And dried those tears for life and fame that 

flowed : 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recalled those thoughts late wandering in 

despair. 
Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
That smoothed his accents ; softened in his 

eye : 
'Twas strange — itAaf robber thus with gore 

bedewed. 
Seemed gentler then than Seyd in fondest 

mood. 
The Pacha wooed as if he deemed the slave 
Mi|5t seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
The Corsair vowed protection, soothed af- 
fright, 
As if his homage were a woman's right. 
" The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female 

— vain : 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
The life — my loving lord remembered not ! 



THE CORSAIR. 



419 



VIII. 

And him she saw, where thickest carnage 

spread, 
But gathered breathing from the happier dead ; 
Far from his band, and battling with a host 
That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
Felled — bleeding — baffled of the death he 

sougiit, 
And snatched to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
While Vengeance pondered o'er new plans of 

pain, 
And stanched the blood she saves to shed 

again — 
But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die! 
Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw, 
When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a 

law! 
'Tis he indeed — disarmed but undeprest. 
His sole regret the life he still possest ; 
His wounds too slight, though taken with that 

will. 
Which would have kissed the hand that then 

could kill. 
Oh were there none, of all the many given. 
To send his soul — he scarcely asked to 

heaven ? 
Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
Who more than all had striven and struck for 

death ? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel. 
When thus reversed on faithless fortune's 

wheel, * 

For crimes committed, and the victor's threat. 
Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 
Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen. 
Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening 

wound. 
But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 
Though the far shouting of the distant crowd. 
Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud. 
The better warriors who beheld him near. 
Insulted not the foe who taught them fear; 
And the grim guards that to his durance led. 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 

The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — 

there. 
To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain. 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun. 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 



Which adds all other agony to thirst. 
That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
While famished vultures flit around the stake. 
" Oh ! water — water ! " — smiling Hate denies 
The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he 

dies. 
This was his doom ; — the Leech, the guard, 

were gone. 
And left proud Conrad fettered and alone. 

X. 

'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
When all its elements convulsed — com- 
bined — 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
That juggling fiend — who never spake be- 
fore — 
But cries " I warned thee ! " when the deed is 

o'er. 
Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent. 
May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels. 
And, to itself, all — all that self reveals. 
No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest as once unseen, un- 
sought ; 
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
Ail rushing through their thousand avenues, 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
Endangered glory, life itself beset ; 
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our 

fate; 
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remem- 
bered not 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
Things light or lovely in their acted time. 
But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 
The withering sense of evil unrevealed. 
Not cankering less because the more con- 
cealed — 
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start. 
That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake. 
To snatch the mirror from the soul — and 

break. 
Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 
All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest 

fall. 
Each has some fear, and he who least betrays, 
The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and 

flies ; 
But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 
So steeled by pondering o'er his far career, 
He half-way meets him should he menace near ! 



420 



THE CORSAIR. 



XI. 

In the high chamber of his highest tower 
Sate Conrad, fettered in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perished in the fiame — this fort 
Contained at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
His foe, if vanquished, had but shared the 

same : — 
Alone he sate — in solitude had scanned 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he manned : 
One thought alone he could not — dared not 

meet — 
" Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ? " 
Then — only then — his clanking hands he 

raised. 
And strained with rage the chain on which he 

gazed : 
But soon he found — or feigned — or dreamed 

relief, 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 
" And now come torture when it will — or 

may, 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day 1 " 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept. 
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun. 
For Conrad's plans matured, at once were 

done; 
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time. 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tide he 

stemmed — 
Disguised — discovered — conquering — taken 

— condemned — 
A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying — saving — prisoned — and asleep ! 

XII. 

He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
Was hushed so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 
He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends? 
His foes are gone — and here he hath no 

friends ; 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain. 
And once unclosed — but once may close 

again. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so 

fair. 
And auburn waves of gemmed and braided 

hair ; 
With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot. 
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as 

mute — 
-Through guards and dunnest night how came 

it there ? 
Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare 1 



She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's 

rest 
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 
Which oft in sport adorned her hand before — 
And with it, scarcely questioned, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign 

obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing 

blows. 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door. 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch 

no more : 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 

She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep. 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so 

dear? 
True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe. 
And me and mine he spared from worse than 

woe : 
'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber 

breaks — 
How heavily he sighs 1 — he starts — awakes ! " 

He raised his head — and dazzled with the 

light. 
His eye seemed dubious if it saw aright : 
^e moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
" What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
Methinks, my jailor's face shows wond'rous 

fair! " 
" Pirate ! thou knowest me not — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatched from the flames, and thy more fear- 
ful band, 
I come through darkness — and I scarce 

know why — 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 
" If so, kind lady! thine the only eye 
That would not here in that gay hope delight : 
Theirs is the chance — and let them use their 

right. 
But still I think their courtesy or thine. 
That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " 
Strange though it seem — yet with extremest 

grief 
Is linked a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 
And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
And sometimes with the wisest and the best. 
Till even the scaffold i echoes with their jest ! 



' In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaf- 
fold, and Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when grasp- 



THE CORSAIR. 



M\ 



Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
Whate'er it was that flashed on Conrad, now 
A laughing v, ildness lialf unbent his brow : 
And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short 

life, 
Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom 

and strife. 

XIV. 

" Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have 

power 
To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
Thee would I spare — nay more — would save 

thee now, 
But this — time — hope — nor even thy 

strength allow ; 
But all I can, I will : at least delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to 

both." 

" Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to 

all. 
Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 
Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope 
Of flight from foes with whom I could not 

cope : 
Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 
The one of all my band that would not die ? 
Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
My sole resources in the path I trod 
Were these — my bark — my sword — my 

love — my God I 
The last I left in youth — he leaves me now— ^ 
And Man but works his will to lay me low. 
I have no thought to mock his throne with 

prayer 
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 
It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
My bark is sunk or captiv.e — but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine appeared, Gul- 

nare! 
Mine eye ne'er asked if others were as fair." 

" Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 



ing her neck, she remarked, that it " was too slender 
to trouble the headsman much." During one part 
of the French Revolution, it became a fashion to 
leave some " mot" as a legacy; and the quantity of 
facetious last words spoken during that period would 
form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size. 



But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh! I envy 

those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
Who never feel the void — the wandering 

thought 
That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath 

wrought." 

" Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeemed thee from a fiery tomb." 
"My love stern Seyd's I Oh — No — No — 

not my love — 
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, 

once strove 
To meet his passion — but it v/ould not be. 
I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the 

free. 
I am a slave, a favored slave at best. 
To share his splendor, and seem very blest! 
Oft must my soul the question undergo. 
Of — ' Dost thou love ?' and burn to answer, 

'No!' 
Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
Its pulse nor checked — nor quickened — 

calmly cold : 
And when resigned, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 
And chilled remembrance shudders o'er the 

rest. 
Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
But still — he goes unmourned — returns un- 
sought — 
And oft when present — absent from my 

thought. 
Or when reflection comes — and come it 

must — 
I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust ; 
I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
'Twere worse than bondage to become his 

bride. 
Oh ! tliat this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
Or seek another and give mine release. 
But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign. 
Remember — captive ! 'tis to break thy chain ; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
To give thee back to all endeared below. 
Who share such love as I can never know. 
Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now 

away : 
'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to- 
day ! " 

XV. 

She pressed his fettered fingers to her heart, 
And bowed her head, and turned her to de- 
part, 



422 



THE CORSAIR. 



And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 
What gem hath dropped and sparkles o'er 

his chain ? 
The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 
That starts at once — bright — pure — from 

Pity's mine. 
Already polished by the hand divine ! 

Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! 
That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 
To save, subdue — at once her spear and 

shield : 
Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 
What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 



The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven, 

By this — how many lose nut earth — but 

heaven ! 
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe. 
And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe. 



'Tis morn — and o'er his altered features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral \\ ing : 
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, 
Wliile sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffened 

limb 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but hira ! — 



caKto the third. 



Come vedi — ancor non m' abbandona." 

Dante. 



I. 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,l 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he 

throws. 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On old ^gina's rock, and Idra's isle. 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply puipled meet his mellowing 

glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of 

heaven. 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delfjhian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens! here thy Wisest looked his 

last. 
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray. 



1 The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, 
perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to 
an unpublished (though printed) poem; but they ' 
were written on the spot, in the Spring of 1811, and [ 
— I scarce know why — the reader must excuse 
their appearance here — if he can, I 



That closed their murdered sage's 2 latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour, 
The land, where Phoebus never frowned be- 
fore ; 
But ere he sank below Cithasron's head, 
The cup of woe was quaffed — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorned to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign.3 
No murky vapor, herald of the storm. 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams 

play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray. 
And, bright around with quivering beams be- 
set. 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minan.-t : 
The groves of olive scattered dark and wide 
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 

2 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before 
sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the 
entreaties of his disciples to wait. till the sun went , 
down. 

^ The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in ' 
our own country: the days in winter are longer, 
but in summer of shorter duration. 



THE CORSAIR. 



423 



The cypress saddening by tho sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, i 
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fone yon solitary palm. 
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye — 
And dull were his that passed them heedless 

by. 
Again the .^gean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix?d with the shades of many a distant isle. 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to 
smile.'-^ 

II. 
Not now my theme — why turn. my thoughts 

to thee? 
Oh 1 who can look along thy native sea, 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set. 
Fair Athens i could thine evenmg face forget ? 
Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance 

frees, 
Spell-bourid within the clustering Cyclades ! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain. 
His Corsair's isle was once thine own do- 
main — 
Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 

III. 
The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the 

night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
Medora's heart — the third day's come and 

gone — 
With it he comes not — sends not — faithless 

one! 
The wind was fair though light; and storms 

were none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark returned, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the 

tale 



1 The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house: the 
palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far 
from the temple of Theseus, between which and the 
tree the wall intervenes. — Cephisus' stream is in- 
deed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. 

- [(3f the brilliant skies and variegated land- 
scapes of Greece every one has formed to himself a 
general notion, from having contemplated them 
through the hazy atmosphere of some prose narra- 
tion; but, in Lord Byron's poetry, every image is 
distinct and glowing, as if it v/ere illuminated by its 
native sunshine; and in the figures which people 
the landscape we behold, not only the general form 
and costume, but the countenance, and the attitude, 
and the play of features and of gestures accompany- 
ing, and indicating, the sudden impulses of momen- 
tary feelings. The magic of coloring by which this 
is effected is, perhaps, the most striking evidence 
Qf Lord Byron's X?\^vA,— George Ellis.] 



Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The niglu-breeze freshens — she that day had 

passed 
In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore. 
And there she wandered, heedless of the spray 
That dashed her garments oft, and warned 

away : 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart. 
Nor deemed it cold — her chill was at her 

heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very Sight had shocked from life or sense 1 

It came at last — a sad and shattered boat. 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they 

sought ; 
Some bleeding — all most wretched — these 

the few — 
Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they 

knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appeared to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
Something they would have said ; but seemed 

to fear 
To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot. 
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 
That deemed not till they found their energy. 
While yet was Hope — they softened — flut- 
tered — wept — 
All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which 

said, 
" With nothing left to love — there's nought to 

dread." 
'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
What — speak not — breathe not — for I know 

it well — 
Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he 

lies." 

"Lady! we know not — scarce with life we 

fled ; 
But here is one denies that he is dead : 
He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 

She heard no ftirthur — 'twas in vain to 
strive — 

So throbbed each vein — each thought — till 
then withstood ; 

Her own dark soul — these words at once sub- 
dued : 

She totters — falls — and senseless had the 
■wave 

Perchance but snatched her from another 
grave ; 



424 



THE CORSAIR. 



But that with hands though rude, yet weeping 

eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies: 
Dash o'er her deathlike clieek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That feinting form o'er which they gaze and 

grieve ; 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 

IV. 

In that wild council words waxed warm and 

strange 
With thoughts of ranson, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he formed and 

led 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are 

true. 

V. 
Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's 

fate; 
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell. 
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 
Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom 

of mind : 
While many an anxious glance her large dark 

eye 
Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, i 
But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 

" Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fallen the 

rest! 
His doom is fixed — he dies : and well his fate 
Was earned — yet much too worthless for thy 

hate: 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
While baffled, weakened by this fatal fray — 
Watched — followed — he were then an easier 

prey ; 
But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 

" Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 
Were offered rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 
If for each hair of his a massy mine 
Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; 
If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

1 The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the 
beads are in number ninety-nine. 



Of wealth were here — that gold should not 

redeem ! 
It had not now redeemed a single hour; 
But that I know him fettered, in my power; 
And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

" Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

" His capture could! — and shall I then resign 
One day to him — the wretch already mine? 
Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — 

thine. 
Fair suitor I — to thy virtuous gratitude, 
That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 
No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair. 
My thanks and praise alike are due — now 

hear! 
I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 
I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
Borne in his arms through fire from yon 

Serai — 

Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly? 
Thou need'st not answer — thy confession 

speaks, 
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 
'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 
Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
Accursed was the moment when he bore 
Thee from the flames, which better far — but 

— no — 
I then had mourned thee with a lover's woe — 
Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 
Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? 
In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood 

safe ! " 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 

Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 

Ah ! little recked that chief of womanhood — 

Which frowns ne'er quelled, nor menaces sub- 
dued ; 

And little deemed he what thy heart, Gulnare ! 

When soft could feel, and when incensed 
could dare. 

His doubts appeared to wrong — nor yet she 
knew 

How deep the root from whence compassion 
grew — 

She was a slave — from such may captives 
claim 

A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 

Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath. 



THE CORSAIR, 



425 



Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
Again liis rage repelled — until arose 
That strife of thought, the source of woman's 
woes ! 

VI. 

Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — 

the same 
Rolled day and night — his soul could never 

tame — 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
When every hour might doom him worse than 

dead. 
When every step that echoed by the gate 
Might entering lead where axe and stake 

await ; 
When every voice that grated on his ear 
Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
'Twas worn — perhaps decayed — yet silent 

bore 
That conflict, deadlier far than all before : 
The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale. 
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to 

quail ; 
But bound and fixed in fettered solitude. 
To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate. 
Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 
Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 
To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 
With not a friend to animate, and tell 
To other ears that death became thee well : 
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie. 
And blot life's latest scene with calumny; 
Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare. 
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may 

bear ; 
But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 
To valor's praise thy last and dearest claim ; 
The life thou leav'st below, denied above 
By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee 

riven. 
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sus- 
tain. 
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
And those sustained he — boots it well or ill ? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 

VII, 

The first day passed — he saw not her — Gul- 

nare — 
The second — third — and still she came not 

there; 
But what her words avouched, her charms 

had done, 
Or else he had not seen another sun. 
The fourth day rolled along, and with the 

night 



Came storm and darkness in their mingling 

might : 
Oh ! how he listened to the rushing deep, 
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep : 
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent. 
Roused by the roar of his own element! 
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave. 
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 
And now its dashing echoed on his ear, 
A long known voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 
Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud. 
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
And flashed the lightning by the latticed bar. 
To him more genial than the midnight star : 
Close to the glimmering grate he dragged his 

chain. 
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and prayed 
One pitying flash to mar the form it made : i 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm rolled onward', and disdained to 

strike ; 
Its peal waxed fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
As if some faithless friend had spurned his 

groan 1 

VIII, 

The midnight passed — and to the massy door 
A light step came — it paused — it moved once 

more ; 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she f 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint. 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can 

paint ; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she 

came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her 

frame : 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye. 
Which spoke before her accents — "Thou 

must die ! 



1 [" By the way — I have a charge against you. 
As the great Mr. Dennis roared out on a similar 
occasion, ' By G — d, that is my thunder! ' — so do 
I exclaim, ' This is my lightning! ' 1 allude to a 
speech of Ivan's, in the scene with Petrowna and 
the Empress, where the thought and almost expres- 
sion are similar to Conrad's in the third canto of 
the ' Corsair.' I, however, do not say this to accuse 
you, but to except myself from suspicion; as there 
is a priority of six months' publication, on my 
part, between the appearance of that composition 
and of your tragedies." — Lord B. to Mr. Sotheby, 
Sept. 25, 1815. — The following are the lines in Mr. 
Sotheby's tragedy : — 



" And I have leapt 



In transport from my flinty couch, to welcome 

The thunder as it burst upon my roof; 

And beckoned to the lightning, as it flashed 

And sparkled on these fetters." 
Notwithstanding Lord Byron's precaution, the coin- 
cidence in question was cited against him, some 
years after, in a periodical journal.] 



426 



THE CORSAIR. 



Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not 

worse." 
" Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaimed they — Conrad still the 

same : 
Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to 

spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
Well have I earned — nor here alone — the 

meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

" Why should I seek? because — Oh! didst 

thou not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 
Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee 

blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind ! 
And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not 

tell — 
Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is 

moved : 
It feared thee — thanked thee — pitied — mad- 
dened — loved. 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
Thou lovest another — and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more 

fair, 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to 

roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my 

head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free. 
Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me !" 

"Ay — in my chains! my steps will gently 

tread. 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering 

head ! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ? " 

"Misdoubting Corsair! I have gained the 

guard, 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
A single word of mine removes that chain • 
Without some aid how here could I remain ? 
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 
If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 
The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 
That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed! 
I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 
Wronged, spurned, reviled — and it shall be 

avenged — 
Accused of what till now my heart dis- | 

dained — I 



Too faithful, though to bitter bondage 

chained. 
Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
I was not treacherous then — nor thou too 

dear ; 
But he has said it — and the jealous well, 
Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
I never loved — he bought me — somewhat 

high — 
Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said. 
But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 
' Twas false thou know'st — but let such 

augurs rue. 
Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 
This fleeting grace was only to prepare 
New torments for thy life, and my despair. 
Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 
Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 
When wearier of these fleeting charms and 

me, 
There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the 

sea! 
What, am I then a toy for dotard's play. 
To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 
I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — 

would save. 
If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 
(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in 

strife,) 
I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 
Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 
Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but 

the worst. 
Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 
Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou 

wouldst not start, 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must 

lead, 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the op- 
pressor Seyd ! " 

" Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till nov* 
My abject fortune, withered fame so low : 
Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 
From earth with ruthless but with open hand. 
And therefore came I, in my bark of war. 
To smite the smiter with the scimitar; 
Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
W^ho spares a woman's seeks not slumber's 

life. 
Thine saved I gladly. Lady, not for this — 
Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy 

breast ! 
Night wears apace - - my last of earthly rest ! " 



THE CORSAIR. 



Ml 



"Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews 

shake, 
And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 
I heard tiie order — saw — I will not sec — 
If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 
Mv life — my love — my hatred — all below 
Are on this cast — Corsair! 'tis but a blow! 
Without it flight were idle — how evade 
His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted 

years, 
One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 
But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
I'll try the firmness of a female hand. 
The guards are gained — one moment all 

were o'er — 
Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 
If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 

IX. 
She turned, and vanished ere he could reply, 
But his glance followed far with eager eye ; 
And gathering, as he could, the links that 

bound 
His form, to curl their length, and curb their 

sound. 
Since bar and bolt no more his steps pre- 
clude, . 
He, fast as fettered limbs allow, pursued. 
'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not 

where 
That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were 

there : 
He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 
Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems 

to bear 
Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 
He reached an open gallery — on his eye 
Gleamed the last star of night, the clearing 

sky: 
Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing 

door 
Revealed the ray within, but nothing more. 
With hasty step a figiu^e outward past, 
Then paused — and turned — and paused — 

'tis She at last ! 
No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
" Thanks to that softening heart — she could 

not kill! " 
Again he looked, the wildness of her eye 
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
She stopped — threw back her dark far-float- 
ing hair, 
That nearly veiled her face and bosom fair : 
As if she late had bent her leaning head 
Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
They meet — upon her brow — unknown — 
forgot — 



Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a 

spot — 
Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis 

blood! 

X. 

He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt fore- 
shown ; 
He had been tempted — chastened — and the 

chain 
Yet on his arms might ever there remain: 
But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 
From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrilled — so shuddered every creeping 

vein. 
As now they froze before that purple stain. 
That spot of blood, that light but guilty 

streak, 
Had banished all the beauty from her cheek ! 
Blood he had viewed — could view unmoved 

— but then 
It flowed in combat, or was shed by men ! 

XI. 

" 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is 

done. 
Corsair ! he perished — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
The few gained over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand. 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 

She clapped her hands — and through the 
gallery pour, 

Equipped for flight, her vassals — Greek and 
Moor; 

Silent but quick they stoop, his chains un- 
bind ; 

Once more his limbs are free as mountain 
wind ! 

But on his heavy heart such sadness sate. 

As if they there transferred that iron weight. 

No words are uttered — at her sign a door .. 

Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 

The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 

The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 

And Conrad following, at her beck, obeyed. 

Nor cared he now if rescued or betrayed ; 

Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 

Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII. 

Embarked, the sail unfurled, the light breeze 

blew — 
How much had Conrad's memory to review! 
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchored reared its giant shape. 



428 



THE CORSAIR. 



Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the 

time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frowned above the mast. 
He veiled his face, and sorrowed as he passed ; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band. 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
He turned and saw — Gulnare, the homicide ! 

XIV. 
She watched his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell quenched in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him and his hand she pressed, 
" Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self de- 
test ; 
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet — Oh! spare me 

710W ! 

I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewildered — do not madden quite ! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt. 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou 

wilt." 

XV. 
She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself 

upbraid 
Than her, though undesigned, the wretch he 

made 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest. 
They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the 

surge, 
The blue waves sport around the stern they 

urge ; 
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 
Their little bark her men of watch descry. 
And ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; 
She bears her down majestically near, 
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 
A flash is seen — the ball beyond her bow 
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
" 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag! again — 

again — 
I am not all deserted on the main ! " 
They own the signal, answer to the hail. 
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
"'Tis Conrad! Conrad !" shouting from the 

deck, 
Command nor duty could their transport 

check ! 
With light alacrity and gaze of pride. 
They view him mount once more his vessel's 

side; 
A smile relaxing in each rugged face. 
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough em- 
brace. 



He, half forgetting danger and defeat. 
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand. 
And feels he yet can conquer and command! 



These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow^, 
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 
They sailed prepared for vengeance — had 

they known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own. 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are 

they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, and wondering 

stare. 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
And her, at once above — beneath her sex. 
Whom blood appalled not, their regards per- 
plex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye. 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resigned the 

rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom 

fill. 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 
The worst of crimes had left her. woman still ! 

XVII. 
This Conrad marked, and felt — ah ! could he 

less? — 1 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
What she has done no tears can wash away. 
And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her 

guilt. 
For him that poinard smote, that blood was 

spilt; 
And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
And now he turned him to that dark-eyed 

slave 
Whose brow was bowed beneath the glance 

he gave, 
Who now seemed changed and humbled : — 

faint and meek, 
But varying oft the color of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stained it from the 

dead! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too 

late — 
So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
He clasped that hand — it trembled — and his 

own 

1 [" I have added a section for Gulnare, to fill 
up the parting, and dismiss her more ceremoniously. 
If Mr. Gifford or you dislike, 'tis but a sponge and 
another midnight." — Lord Byron to Mr, M., 
January ii, 1814.] 



THE CORSAIR. 



429 



Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
" Gulnare ! " — but she replied not — " dear 

Gulnare! " 
She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
His had been more or less than mortal heart. 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest virtue then had joined the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That asked from form so fair no more than 

this, 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
To lips where Love had lavished all his breath. 
To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance 

fling, 
As he had fanned them freshly with his wing ! 

XVIII. 
They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle, 
To them the very rocks appear to smiie ; 
The haven hums with many a cheering sound. 
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round. 
The boats are darting o'er the curly bay. 
And sportive dolphins bend them through the 

spray ; 
Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant 

shriek. 
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice 

gleams. 
Their fancy paints the friends that trim the 

beams. 
Oh 1 what can sanctify the joys of home. 
Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troub- 
led foam ? 

XIX. 

The lights are high on beacon and from 
bower. 

And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's 
tower : 

He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all re- 
mark, 

Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 

'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never failed, 

Xor now, perchance, extinguished, only veiled. 

With the first boat descends he for the shore, 

And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 

Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 

To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 

With the first pause the resting rowers gave. 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the 
wave. 

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, 
and high 

Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reached his turret door — he paused — 

no sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knocked, and loudly — footstep nor reply 



Announced that any heard or deemed him 

nigh; 
He knocked — but faintly — for his trembling 

hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 'tis a well known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent — twice his own essayed, 
And failed to frame the question they delayed ; 
He snatched the lamp — its light will answer 

all — 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have lingered therefor day; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another chequers o'er the shadowed floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 



He turned not — spoke not — sunk not — fixed 

his look. 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
In life itself she was so still and fair, 
That death with gentler aspect withered there ; 
And the cold flowers i her colder hand con- 
tained, 
In that last grasp as tenderly were strained 
As if she scarcely felt, but feigned a sleep, 
And made it almost mockerv yet to weep : 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow. 
And veiled — thought shrinks from all that 

lurked below — 
Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might. 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light! 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse. 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile. 
And wished repose — but only for a while; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress. 
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the 

bier — 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 



XXI. 
He asked no question - 



all were answered 



By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what recked it 

how? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
The only living thing he could not hate, 

' In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers 
on the bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young 
persons to place a nosegay. 



430 



THE CORSAIR. 



Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, 
For peace, those realms where guilt'can never 

soar : 
The proud — the wayward — who have fixed 

below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
But who in patience parts with all delight ? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask liearts where grief hath little left to learn, 
And many a withering th ought lies hid, not lost, 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

XXII. 
By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one. 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lulled it into rest ; 
So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's 

wept: 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 
Which thus confessed without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if 

seen. 
That useless flood of grief had never been: 
Nor long they flowed — he dried them to de- 
part. 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
And thenight cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind. 
On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the bhnd ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns 

aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide I 

XXIII. 

His heart was formed for softness — warped 

to wrong ; i 
Betrayed too early, and beguiled too long ; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grot ; like that had hardened too ; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials passed. 
But sunk, and chilled, and pei-tified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the 

rock, 



[These sixteen lines are not in the original MS.] 



If such his heart, so shattered it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged 

brow, 
Though dark the shade — it sheltered — savedl 

till now. 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted! 

both. 
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth ; 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and withered where it fell; | 
And of its cold protector, blacken round I 

But shivered fragments on the barren ground ! I 

XXIV. 

'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare : though now Anselmo sought his 

tower. 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarmed, their isle is traversed o'er : 
Another morn — another bids them seek. 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley searched in 

vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
'Tis idle all — moons roll' on moons away, 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that 

day: 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perished his despair! 
Long mourned his''band whom none could 

mourn beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely 

known ; 
He left a Corsair's name to other times. 
Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.l 



^ [The "Corsair" is written in the regular 
heroic couplet, with a spirit, freedom, and variety 
of tone, of which, notwithstanding the example of 
Dryden, we scarcely believed that measure suscep- 
tible. It was yet to be proved that this, the most 
ponderous and stately verse in our language, could 
be accommodated to the variations of a tale of pas- 
sion and of pity, and to all the breaks, starts, and- 
transitions of an adventurous and dramatic narra- 
tion. This experiment Lord Byron has made, with 
equal boldness and success; and has satisfied us, 
that the oldest and most respectable measure that 
is known amongst us, is at least as flexible ns any 
other, and capable, in the hands of a master, of 
vibrations as strong and rapid as those of a lighter 
structure. — Jeffrey. \ 



That the point of honor which is represented in one instance of Conrad's character has not been 
carried beyond the bounds of proba'oility, may perhaps be in some degree confirmed by the following 
anecdote of a brother buccaneer in the year 1814: — " Our readers have all seen the account of the enter- 
prise against the pirates of Barrataria; but few, we believe, were informed of the situation, history, or 
nature of that establishment. For the information of such as were unacquainted with it, we have procured 



THE CORSAIR. 431 



from a friend the following interesting narrative of the main facts, of which he has personal knowledge 
and which cannot fail to interest some of our readers. — Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Guh 
of Mexico; it runs through a rich but very flat country, until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi 
river, fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay has branches almost innumerable, in which 
persons can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. It communicates with three lakes which lie on the 
south-west side, and these, with the lake of the same name, and svhich lies contiguous to the sea, where 
there is an island formed by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The east and west points of this 
island were fortified, in the year 1811, by a band of pirates under the command of one Monsieur La Fitte. 
A large majority of these outlaws are of that class of the population of the State of Louisiana who fled 
from the island of St. Domingo during the troubles there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba; and 
when the last war between France and Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that island with 
the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony, ttiey entered the United States, the most of them the 
State of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Governor 
of that State of the clause in the constitution which forbade the importation of slaves; but, at the same 
time, received the assurance of the Governor that he v»ould obtain, if possible, the approbation of the 
General Government for their retaining this property. — The island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29 
deg. 15 min., Ion. 92. 30. ; and is as remarkable for its health as for the superior scale and shell fish with 
which its waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles de Moor, had mixed with his many vices 
some virtues. In the year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, claimed the attention of 
the Governor of Louisiana; and to break up the establishment he thought proper to strike at the head. 
He therefore offered a reward of 500 dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well known to 
the inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, from his immediate connection, and his once having been a 
fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which art he learnt in Bonaparte's army, where he was a 
captain. The reward which was offered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was answered by the 
offer of a reward from the latter of 15,000 for the head of the Governor. Tlie Governor ordered out a 
company to march from the city to La Fitte's island, and to burn and destroy all the property, and to 
tiring to the city of New Orleans rdl his banditti. This company, under the command of a man who had 
been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, approaclied very near to the fortified island, before he 
saw a man, or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. Then it was he 
found himself surrounded by armed men who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into Bayou. 
Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor developed liis few noble traits; for to this man, who had 
come to destroy his life and all thafwas dear to him, he not only spared his life, but offered him that 
which would have made the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his days; which was indignantly 
refused. He then, with the approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This circumstance, and 
some concomitant events, proved that this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our naval force 
having always been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment could 
not be expected from them until augmented; for an officer of the navy, with most of the gim-boats on 
that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of 
the navy authorized an attack, one was made; the overthrow of this banditti has been the result; and 
now this almost invulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the 
government will hold it by a strong military force." — American Newspaper. 

In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical History there is a singular passage in his account 
of Archbishop Blackbourne; and as in some measure connected with the profession of the hero of the 
foregoing poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. — " There is something mysterious in the 
history and character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but imperfectly known; and report has even 
asserted he was a buccaneer; and that one of his brethren in that profession having asked, on his arrival 
in England, what had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was answered, he is Archbishop of York. 
We are informed that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 1694, which office he resigned in 
1702; but after his successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the following year he be- 
came dean; and in 1714 held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was consecrated bishop of Exe- 
ter, February 24, 1716; and translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, according to court 
scandal, for uniting George I. to the Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have been an un- 
founded calumny. As archbishop he behaved with great prudence, and was equally respectable as the 
guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumor whispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a 
passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his weaknesses; but so far from being convicted by 
seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon 
these aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should have been so good 
a scholar as Blackbourne certainly was.'' He who had so perfect a knowledge of the classics (particu- 
larly of the Greek tragedians), as to be able to read them with the same ease as he could Shakspeare, 
must have taken great pains to acquire the learned languages; and have had both leisure and good mins- 
ters. But he was undoubtedly educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. He is allowed to have been 
a pleasant man; this however was turned against him, by its being said, ' he gained more hearts than 
souls.' " 

" The only voice that could soothe the passions J)f the savage (Alphonso III.) was that of an amiable 
and virtuous wife, the sole object of his love; the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of 
Savoy, and the grand-daughter of Philip II. King of Spain. — Her dying words suiik deep into his mem- 
ory; his fierce spirit melted into tears; and after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into his chamber to 
bewail his Irreparable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human life." — Gibbon's Miscellaneous 
[Forks, vol. ill. p. 475, 



LARA: A TALE. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Lara was published anonymously in August, 1814, in the same volume with the "Jacqueline" of 
Rogers. It is obviously the sequel of " The Corsair." Lara is Conrad, and Kaled, Gulnare. Byron in 
one of his letters says, " Lara I wrote while undressing, after coming home from balls and masquerades, 
in the year of revelry, 1814." 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



The Serfs 1 are glad through Lara's wide do- 
main, 
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 
The long self-exiled chieltain, is restored : 
There be bright faces in the busy hall, 
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze ; 
And gay retainers gather round the hearth. 
With to'ngues all loudness, and with eyes all 
mirth. 

II, 
The chief of Lara is returned again : 
And why had Lara crossed the bounding 

main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know. 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe, 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to 

crime ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, 
then 



1 The reader is apprised, that the name of Lara 
being Spanish, and no circumstance of local and 
natural description fixing the scene or hero of the 
poem to any country or age, the word ' Serf,' which 
could not be correctly applied to the lower classes 
in Spain, who were never vassals of the soil, has 
nevertheless been employed to designate the follow- 
ers of our fictitious chieftain. — [Byron elsewhere 
intimates, that he meant Lara for a chief of the 
Morea.] 



Had Lara's daring boyhood governed men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone.2 



And Lara left in youth his father-land ; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
Each trace waxed fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
The young forgot him, and the old had died; 
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient 

heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy 

grace 
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place ; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 
He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 
And whence they know not, why they need 

not guess ; 
They more might marvel, when the greeting's 
o'er, 
1 [Lord Byron's own tale is partly told in this 
section. — Sir Walter Scott.l 



LARA. 



433 



Not that he came, but came not long before : 
No train is his beyond a single page, 
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 
Years had rolled on, and fast they speed away 
To those that wander as to those that stay ; 
But lack of tidings from another clime 
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
They see, they recognize, yet almost deem 
The present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime. 
Though seared by toil, and something touched 

by time ; 
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot. 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling 

wins ; 
And such, if not yet hardened in their course. 
Might be redeemed, nor ask a long remorse. 

V. 
And they indeed w^ere changed — 'tis quickly 

seen, 
Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been : 
That brow in furrowed lines had fixed at last, 
And spake of passions, but of passion past: 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days. 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 
A high demeanor, and a glance that took 
Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue. 
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung. 
That darts in seeming playfulness around, 
And makes those feel that will not own thp 

wound, 
All these seemed his, and something more 

beneath. 
Than glance could well reveal, or accent 

breathe. 
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, 
That some can conquer, and that all would 

claim, 
Within his breast appeared no more to strive, 
Yet seemed as lately they had been alive ; 
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
At moments lightened o'er his livid face. 

VI. 
Not much he loved long question of the past. 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wandered 

lone. 
And — as himself w^ould have it seem — un- 
known : 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 
But what he had beheld he shunned to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 



VII. 
Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was liis welcome to the haunts of men ; 
Born of high lineage, linked in high com- 
mand. 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land ; 
joined the carousals of the great and gay. 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours 

away ; 1 
But still he only saw, and did not share, 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued 
With hope still baffled still to be renewed; 
Nor shadowy honor, nor substantial gain. 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repelled approach, and showed him still 

alone ; 
Upon his eye sat something of reproof. 
That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
And things more timid that beheld him near. 
In silence gazed, or whispered mutual fear; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confessed 
They deemed him better than his air ex- 
pressed. 

VIII. 
'Twas strange — in youth all action and all 

life. 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that 

gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried — he ransacked all below, 
And found his recompense in joy or woe, 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had looked on high, 
And asked if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Chained to excess, the slave of each extreme. 
How woke he from the wildness of that 

dream ? 
Alas I he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the withered heart that would not 
break. 

IX. 

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appeared to scan, 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day, 
From ail communion he would start away : 
And then, his rarely called attendants said. 
Through night's long hours would sound his 
hurried tread 



1 [This description of Lara suddenly and unex- 
pectedly returned from distant travels, and reassum- 
ing his station in the society of his own country, 
has strong points of resemblance to the part which 
the author himSelf seemed occasionally to bear amid 
the scenes where the great mingle with the fair. — 
Sir Walter Scott.] 



434 



LARA. 



O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frowned 
In rude but antique portraiture around: 
They heard, but whispered — " that must not 

be known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some 

had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should 

have been. 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gathered from the 

dead, 
That still beside his opened volume lay. 
As if to startle all save him away ? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 
Why heard no music, and received no guest ? 
All was not well, they deemed — but where 

the wrong ? 
Some knew perchance — but 'twere a tale too 

long; 
And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
To more than hint their knowledge in sur- 
mise ; 
But if they would — they could " — around the 

board. 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 



It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 
The stars are studding, each with imaged 

beam; 
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray. 
And yet they glide like happiness away ; 
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 
Tne immortal lights that live along the sky: 
Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 
And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 
Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 
And Innocence would offer to her love. 
These deck the shore ; the waves their chan- 
nel make 
In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 
All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there ; 
Secure that nought of evil could delight 
To walk in such a scene, on such a night I 
It Wiis a moment only for the good : 
So Lara deemed, nor longer there he stood, 
But turned in silence to his castle-gate ; 
Such scene his soul no more could contem- 
plate : 
Such scene reminded him of other days, 
Of skies more cloudless, moonsof purer blaze. 
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that 

now — 
No — no — the st(3rm may beat upon his brow, 
Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 
A night of beauty, mocked such breast as his. 



He turned within his solitary hall. 

And his high shadow shot along the wall : 



There were the painted forms of other times, 
'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their 

faults ; 
And half a column of the pompous page, 
That speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 
Where history's pen its praise or blame sup- 
plies. 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeams 

shone 

Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone. 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view; 
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume. 
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 

'Twas midnight — all was slumber; the lone 

light 
Dimmed in the lamp, as loath to break the 

night. 
Hark 1 there be murmurs heard in Lara's 

hall — 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they 

hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to 

save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatched in startled haste unbehed 

brands. 

XIII. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
Pale as the beam that o'er his features played, 
Was Lara stretched; his half-drawn sabre 

near, 
Dropped it should seem in more than nature's 

fear; 
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
And still defiance knit his gathered brow ; 
Though mixed with terror, senseless as he lay. 
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 
Some half-formed threat in utterance there 

had died. 
Some imprecation of despairing pride; 
His eye was almost sealed, but not forsook 
Even in its trance the gladiator's look. 
That oft awake his aspect could disclose. 
And nov/ was fixed in horrible repose. 
They raise him — bear him ; — hush ! he 

breathes, he speaks. 
The swarthy blush recolors in his cheeks. 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 



LAJ^A. 



435 



Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering 

limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land ; 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ! 

XIV. 
His page approached, and he alone appeared 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow. 
They were not such as Lara should avow. 
Nor he interpret, — yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain's state he 

eyes, 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
And in that tongue which seemed his own 

replied. 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
A breast that needed not ideal woe. 

XV. 
Whate'er his frenzy dreamed or eye beheld, 
If yet remembered ne'er to be revealed. 
Rests at his heart : the customed morning 

came,' 
And breathed new vigor in his shaken frame; 
And solace sought he none from priest nor 

leech, 
And soon th e same in movement and in speech 
As heretofore he filled the passing hours, — 
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead 

lowers, 
Than these were wont; and if the coming 

night 
Appeared less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
He to his marvelling vassals showed it not, 
Whose shuddering proved t/ieir fear was less 

forgot. 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) 

crawl 
The astonished slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees. 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought 

appalls. 
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 

XVI. 
Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravelled 

gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
Had memory vanished then with sense 

restored ? 



Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
Betrayed a feeling that recalled to these 
That fevered moment of his mind's disease. 
Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 
Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that 

broke 
Their slumber ? his the oppressed, o'erlabored 

heart 
That ceased to beat, the look that made them 

start ? 
Could he who thus had suffered so forget. 
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet ? 
Or did that silence prove his memory fixed 
Too deep for words, indelible, unmixed 
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
Not so in him ; his breast had buried both. 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half 

told; 
They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 



In him inexplicably mixed appeared 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and 

feared ; 
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 
His silence formed a theme for others' prate — 
They guessed — they gazed — they fain would 

know his fate. 
What had he been ? what was he, thus un- 
known. 
Who walked their world, his lineage only 

known ? 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But owned that smile, if oft observed and near. 
Waned in its mirth, and withered to a sneer; 
That smile might reach his lip, but passed not 
by, 

None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
Yet there was softness too in his regard. 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirh seemed to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride. 
And steeled itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem ; 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung 

from rest ; 
In vigilance of grief that would compel 
The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

XVIII. 

There was in him a vital scorn of all : 

As if the worst had fallen which could befall, 

He stood a stranger in this breathing world. 

An erring spirit from another hurled ; 

A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 

By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 

But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 



436 



LARA. 



His mind would half exult and half regret: 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
His early dreams of good outstripped the truth, 
And troubled nuinhoodfollowedbaffled youth ; 
With thought of years in phantom chase mis- 
spent. 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent; 
And fiery passions that had poured their wrath 
In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
And left the better feelings all at strife 
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life; 
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
He called on Nature's self to share the shame. 
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
She give to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
Till he at last confounded good and ill, 
And half mistook for fate the acts of will: 
Too high for common selfishness, he could 
At times resign his own for others' good. 
But not in pity, not because he ought. 
But in some strange pcr-versity of thought, 
That swayed him onward with a secret pride 
To do what few or none would do beside ; 
And this same impulse would, in tempting time. 
Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 
So much he soared beyond, or sunk beneath. 
The men with whom he felt condemned to 

breathe. 
And longed by good or ill to separate 
Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 
His mind abhorring this had fixed her throne 
Far from the world, in regions of her own : 
Thus coldly passing all that passed below, 
His blood in temperate seeming now would 

flow : 
Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glowed. 
But ever in that icy smoothness flowed ! 
'Tis true, with other men their path he walked. 
And like the rest in seeming did and talked. 
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start. 
His madness was not of the head, but heart; 
And rarely wandered in his speech, or drew 
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 

XIX. 

With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladnei.s to remain unseen. 
He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor 

aught 
That words can image to express the thought ; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain. 
And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remembered well. 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
There he was stamped, in liking, or in hate. 
If greeted once ; however brief the date 



That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found. 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted still; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit ^^med to dare you to forget ! 



There is a festival, where knights and dames. 
And aught tiiat wealth or lofty lineage claims, 
Appear — a hii^liborn and a welcome guest 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain: 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well according bands ; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad. 
His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 
And his glance followed fast each fluttering 

fair, 
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 
He leaned against the lofty pillar nigh. 
With folded arms and long attentive eye. 
Nor marked a glance so sternly fixed on his — 
111 brooked high Lara scrutiny like this: 
At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown. 
But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 
Who still till now had gazed on him unseen : 
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 
On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 
Along the stranger's aspect, fixed and stern. 
Flashed more than thence the vulgar eye could 

learn. 

XXII. 

" 'Tis he ! " the stranger cried, and those that 

heard 
Reechoed fast and far the whispered word. 
" 'Tis he ! " — " 'Tis who ? " they question far 

and near. 
Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
The general marvel, or that single look : 
Fkit Lara stirred not, changed not, the surprise 
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seemed now subsided, neither sunk nor raised, 
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger 

gazed ; 



LARA. 



437 



And drawing nigh, exclaimed, with haughty 

sneer, 
" 'Tis he! — how came he thence? — what 

doth he here ? " 

XXIII. 

It were too much for Lara to pass by 

Such qut;stions, so repeated fierce and high : 

With look collected, but with accent cold, 

More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 

He turned, and met the inquisitorial tone — 

" My name is Lara ! — when thine own is 

known, 
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
The unlooked for courtesy of such a knight. 
'Tis Lara! — further wouldst thou mark or 

ask? 
I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 

"Thou shunn'st no question! Ponder — is 

there none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would 

shun ? 
And deem 'st thou me unknown too? Gaze 

again ! 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
They knew, or chose to know — with dubious 

look 
He deigned no answer, but his head he shook. 
And half contemptuous turned to pass away ; 
But the stern stranger motioned him to stay. 
" A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer 

here 
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer. 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, 

lord. 
If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 
But as thou wast and art, o\\ t'lee looks down. 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy 
frown. 

Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 

" Whate'er I be. 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
I list no further; those with whom they 

weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The woiidrous tale no doubt thy tongue can 

tell. 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his polished guest. 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be ex- 
pressed." 
And here their wondering host hath inter- 
posed — 
" Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
Tills is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 



Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the 

rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
Though, like Count Lara, now returned alone 
From other lands, aliriost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
I augur right of courage and of worth, 
He will not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, 

deny." 

"To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 

'And here our several worth and truth be 

tried. 
I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
My words, so may I mingle with the blest ! " 
What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
The words of many, and the eyes of all 
That there were gathered, seemed on him to 

fall; 
But his were silent, his appeared to stray 
In far forgetfulness away — away — 
Alas! that heedlessness of all around 
Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 
" To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow ! " further word 
Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 
Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 
From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
Yet there was something fixed in that low 

tone. 
Which showed resolve, determined, though 

unknown. 
He seized his cloak — his head he slightly 

bowed, 
And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 
And, as he passed him, smiling met the 

frown 
With which that chieftain's brow would bear 

him down : 
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling 

pride 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide; 
But that of one in his own heart secure 
Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the 

good ? 
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 
Alas I too like in confidence are each, 
For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
Truths which it wrings tlie unpractised heart 

to learn. 

XXV. 
And Lara called his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
His only follower from those climes afar. 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star*, 



438 



LARA. 



For Lara left the shore from whence he 
sprung, 

111 duty patient, and sedate though young; 

Silent as him he served, his faith appears 

ADove his station, and beyond his years. 

Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's 
land, 

In such from him he rarely heard command; 

But fleet his step, and clear his tones would 
come. 

When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of 
home : 

Those accents, as his native mountains dear. 

Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 

Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice re- 
call. 

Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his 
all: 

For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 

What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
But had not marred, though in his beams he 

grew, 
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone 

through ; 
Yet not such blush as mounts- when health 

would show 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fevered there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seemed caught 
From high, and lightened with electric thought. 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' 

fringe 
Had tempered with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should 

share : 
And pleased not him the sports that please 

his age. 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wandered 

lone. 
Brief were his answers, and his questions 

none ; 
His walk the wood, hissportsome foreign book; 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the 

brook : 
He seemed, like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from 

earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVII. 

If aught he loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown 
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 



In mute attention ; and his care, which 

guessed 
Each wish, fulfilled it ere the tongue ex- 
pressed. 
Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 
A spirit deep that brooked not to be chid ; 
His zeal, though more than that of servile 

hands. 
In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 
As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 
That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 
Slight were the tasks enjoined him by his 

lord. 
To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 
To tune his lute, or, if he willed it more. 
On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 
But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 
To whom he showed nor deference nor dis- 
dain, 
But that well-worn reserve which proved he 

knew 
No sympathy with that familiar crew : 
His soul, whate'er his s'tation or his stem. 
Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 
Of higher birth he seemed, and better days, 
Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
So femininely white it might bespeak 
Another sex, when matched with that smooth 

cheek. 
But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 
More wild and high than woman's eye be- 
trays ; 
A latent fierceness that far more became 
His fiery climate than his tender frame : 
True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 
But from his aspect might be more than 

guessed. 
Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore 
Another ere he left his mountain shore ; 
For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
That name repeated loud without reply. 
As unfamiliar, or, if roused again. 
Start to the sound as but remembered then ; 
Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all 
awake. 

XXVIII. 

He had looked down upon the festive hall. 
And marked that sudden strife so marked of 

all; 
And when the crowd around and near him 

told 
Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 
Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
Such insults from a stranger, doubly sore. 
The color of young Kaled went and came. 
The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 
And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops 

threw 
The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 
That rises as the busy bosom sinks 



LARA. 



439 



With heavy thoughts from which reflection 

shrinks. 
Yes — there be tilings which we must dream 

and dare, 
And execute ere thought be half aware : 
Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 
He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
That sidelong smile upon the knight he past ; 
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 
As if on something recognized right well; 
His memory read in such a meaning more 
Tiian Lara's aspect unto others wore: 
Forward he sprung — a moment, both were 

gone, 
And all within that hall seemed left alone ; 
Each had so fixed his eye on Lara's mien, 
All had so mixed their feelings with that scene, 
That when his long dark shadow through the 

porch 
No more relieves the glare of yon high torch. 
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms 

seem 
To bound as doubting from too black a dream. 
Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth. 
Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there. 
With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 



But long remained not ; ere an hour expired 
He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
The courteous host, and all-approving guest. 
Again to that accustomed couch must creep 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
And man, o'erlabored with his being's strife. 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's 

guile, 
Hate's working brain, and lulled ambition's 

wile; 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And quenched existence crouches in a grave. 
What better name may slumber's bed become ? 
Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk 

supine, 
Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath. 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills in- 
creased, 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the 
least. 

***** 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



Night wanes — the vapors round the moun- 
tains curled 
Meit into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day to swell the past, 
And lead him near to little, but his last; 
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man! behold her glories shine, 
And cry, exulting inly. " They are thine 1 " 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladdened eye may see ; 
A morrow comes when they are not for' thee: 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier. 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a 'single tear; 
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall. 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for 

all; 
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 



'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gathered chieftains come to Qtho's call ; 



'Tis now the promised hour, that must pro- 
claim 

The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 

When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 

And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 

His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise 
given, 

To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 

Why comes he not ? Such truths to be di- 
vulged, 

Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

III. 

The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past. 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ercast. 
" I know my friend I his faith I cannot fear. 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here; 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands; 
My halls from such a guest had honor gained. 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdained, 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day; 



440 



LARA. 



The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 

He ceased — and Lara answered, " I am 

here 
To lend at thy demand a listening ear 
To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 
Whose v\ords already might my heart have 

wrung. 
But that 1 deemed him scarcely less than mad. 
Or, at the v/orst, a foe ignobly bad. 
I know him not — but me it seems he knew 
In lands where — but I must not trifle too : 
Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 
Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 
However near his own or other's tomb ; 
With hand, whose almost careless coolness 

spoke 
Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 
With eye, though calm, determined not to 

spare. 
Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 
In vain the circling chieftains round them 

closed, 
For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 
And from his lip those words of insult fell — 
His sword is good who can maintain them 

well. 

IV. 

Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 

Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 

He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly 

wound. 
Stretched by a dextrous sleight along the 

ground. 
" Demand thy life ! " He answered not : and 

then 
From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 
For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
Almost to blackness in its demon hue; 
And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
Than when his foe's was levelled at his brow; 
Then all was stern collectedness and art. 
Now rose the unleavened hatred of his heart ; 
So little sparing to the foe he felled, 
That when the approaching crowd his arm 

withheld, 
lie almost turned the thirsty point on those 
Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
]^v\i to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 
Yet looked he on him still with eye intent, 
As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 
That left a foe, howc'er o'erthrown, with life ; 
As if to search how far the wound he gave 
Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and 

speech ; 
The others met within a neighboring hall. 
And he, incensed and headless of them all. 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray.. 
In haughty silence slowly strode away; 
He backed his steed, his homeward path he 

took. 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 



But where was he ? that meteor of a night. 
Who menaced but to disappear with light. 
Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 
He left the dome of Otho long ere morn. 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
Hut there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiiy, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarmed, his murmuring squires dis- 
tressed 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass. 
Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale. 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail. 
When agonized hands that ceased to guard. 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the 

sward. 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's 

name. 
Now daily mutters o'er his blackened fame ; 
Then sudden silent when his form appeared, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it feared; 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 



Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are healed, 
But not his pride; and hate no more con- 
cealed : 
He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 
The friend of all who sought to work him woe, 
And from his country's justice now demands 
Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
His presence ? who had made him disappear. 
If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 
The general rumor ignorantly loud. 
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 



LARA. 



441 



The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
The sweeping fierceness which his soul be- 
trayed, 
The skill with which he wielded his keen 

blade ; 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
Where had that fierceness grown upon his 

heart ? 
For it was not the blind capricious rage 
A w ord can kindle and a word assuage ; 
Bat the deep working of a soul unmixed 
With aught of pity where its wrath had fixed ; 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that's merciless : 
These, linked with that desire which ever sways 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm. 
Such as himself might fear, and foes would 

form, 
And he must answer for the absent head 
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 

VIII. 

Within that land was many a malcontent. 
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
That soil full many a wringing despot saw. 
Who worked his wantonness in form of law ; 
Long war without and frequent broil within 
Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
That waited but a signal to begin 
New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 
Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or 

friends ; 
Fixed in his feudal fortress each was lord. 
In word and deed obeyed, in soul abhorred. 
Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 
And with them pining hearts and sluggish 

hands ; 
But that long absence from his native clime 
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 
And now, diverted by his milder sway, 
All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
The menials felt their usual awe alone, 
But more for him than them that fear was 

grown ; 
Thev deemed him now unhappy, though at 

first 
Their evil judgment augured of the worst, 
And each long restless night, and silent mood, 
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 
And though his lonely habits threw of late 
Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his 

gate; 
For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed 

withdrew, 
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high. 
The humble passed not his unheeding eye ; 
Much he would speak not, but beneath his 

roof 
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 



And they who watched might mark that, day 

by day. 
Some new retainers gathered to his sway; 
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost. 
He played the courteous lord and bounteous 

host: 
Perchance his strife with Otho made him 

dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head : 
Whate'er his view, his favor more obtains 
With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
If this were policy, so far 'twas sound. 
The million judged but of him as they found : 
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 
By him no peasant mourned his rifled cot. 
And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his 

lot; 
With him old avarice found its hoard secure. 
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 
Youth present cheer and promised recom- 
pense 
Detained, till all too late to part from thence : 
To hate he offered, with the coming change, 
The deep reversion of delayed revenge ; 
To love, long baffled by the unequal match. 
The well-won charms success was sure to 

snatch. 
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
The moment came, the hour when Otho 

thought 
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 
His summons found the destined criminal 
Begirt by thousands in his swarmmg hall. 
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven. 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
That morning he had freed the soil-bound 

slaves 
Who dig na land for tyrants but their graves ! 
Such is their cry — some watchword for the 

fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right ; 
Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you 

will, 
A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and 

spread, 
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms 

be fed ! 



Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had 

gained 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly 

reigned ; 
Nor was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
The Serfs contemned the one, and hated both : 
They vv-aited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
By circumstance compelled to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 



442 



LARA. 



Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Vlad Lara from that night to him accurst, 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
3ome reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By minghng with his own the cause of all. 
E'en if he tailed, he still delayed his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 
The storm that once had spent itself and 

slept. 
Roused by events that seemed foredoomed to 

urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge. 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had 

been, 
And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
He deemed himself marked out for others' 

hate. 
And mocked at ruin so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the 

crowd ? 
He raised the humble but to bend the 

proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
But man and destiny beset him there : 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a cahii spectator of life's scene j 
But dragged again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature 

spoke, 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 

X. 

What boots the oft repeated tale of strife. 
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 
The varying fortune of each separate field, 
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that 

yield ? 
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 
In this the struggle was the same with all ; 
Save that distempered passions lent their 

force 
In bitterness that banished all remorse. 
None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 
The captive died upon the battle-slain : 
In either cause, one rage alone possessed 
The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 
And they that smote for freedom or for sway. 
Deemed few were slain, while more remained 

to slay. 
It was too late to check the wasting brand, 
And Desolation reaped the famished land ; 
The torch was lighted, and the flame was 

spread, 
And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 



Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse 

strung. 
The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 
But that vain victory hath ruined all ; 
They form no longer to their leader's call : 
In blind confusion on the foe they press, 
And think to snatch is to secure success. 
The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, 
Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 
In vain he dotii whate'er a chief may do. 
To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 
In vain their stubborn ardor he would tame. 
The hand that kindles cannot quench the 

flame ; 
The wary foe alone hath turned their mood, 
And shown their rashness to that erring 

brood : 
The feigned retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
The daily harass, and the fight delayed, 
The long privation of the hoped supply, 
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 
And palls the patience of his baffled heart, . 
Of these they had not deemed : the battle-day 
They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
But more preferred the fury of the strife. 
And present death, to hourly suffering life : 
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
His numbers melting fast from their array; 
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 
But few remam to aid his voice and hand, 
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band : 
Desperate, though few, the last and best re- 
mained 
To mourn the discipline they late disdained. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far. 
And thence they may escape from native war; 
And bear within them to the neighboring state 
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 
But harder still to perish or submit. 

XII. 
It is resolved — they march — consenting 

Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless 

flight. 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
Away ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear ? 
'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear! 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon thft 

height ? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
Cut off" from hope, and compassed in tha 

toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer 

spoil ! 



LARA. 



443 



XIII. 

A moment's pause — 'tis but to breathe their 

band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by their border-stream their march op- 
pose, 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass 

the line, 
However linked to baffle such design. 
"The charge be ours! to wait for their 

assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, reined is every steed, 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the 

deed : 
In tlie next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of death 1 

XIV. 
His blade is bared, — in him there is an air 
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
A something of indifference more than then 
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 
He turned his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight 

threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint ex- 
pressed 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
This Lara marked, and laid his hand on his : 
It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
His eye alone proclaimed, " We will not part 1 
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may 

flee, 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee ! " 

The word hath passed his lips, and onward 

driven, 
Pours the linked band through ranks asunder 

riven ; 
Well has each steed obeyed the armed heel. 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
Outnumbered, not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream. 
Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

XV. 
Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
Where foe appeared to press, or friend to fall. 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his 

steel, 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were 

vain 
But those that waver turn to smite again, 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow. 



Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
He foils their ranks, or re-unites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seemed 

to fly — 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on 

high, 
And shook — Why sudden droops that 

plumed crest ? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast ! 
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 
And Death had stricken down yon arm of 

pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
But yet the sword instinctively retains. 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling 

reins ; 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow. 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage r 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge 

again ; 
Too mixed the slayers now to heed the slain ! 

XVI. 
Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth. 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
And near, yet quivering with what life re- 
mained, 
The heel that urged him and the hand that 

reined ; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie. 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the 

breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept. 
Their limbs along the crimsoned turf have 

crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream and bend to 

taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause ? No further thirst have they to 

slake — 
It is unquenched, and yet they feel it not ; 
It was an agony — but now forgot 1 

XVII. 
Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
Where but for him that strife had never been, 
A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away. 
His follower once, and now his only guide, 
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
And with his scarf would stanch the tides that 
rush, 



444 



LARA. 



With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 

And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

He clasps the hand that pang which would 

assuage 
And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 
Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor 

sees, 
Save that damp brow which rests upon his 

knees ; 
Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though 

dim, 
Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVIII. 
The foe arrives, who long had searched the 

field, 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should 

yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see 'twere 

vain. 
And he regards them with a calm disdain. 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed. 
And questions of his state; he answers not. 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot. 
And turns to Kaled : — each remainmg word 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
l"o which some strange remembrance wildly 

clung. 
They spake of other scenes, but what — is 

known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reached alone ; 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement 

round : 
They seemed even then — that twain — unto 

the last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate 

fate. 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 

XIX, 
Their words though faint were many — from 

the tone 
Their import those who heard could judge 

alone ; 
From this, you might have deemed young 

Kaled's death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasped 

hoarsely near : 
But from his visage little could we guess, 



So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
"Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
And once, as Kaled's answering accents 

ceased. 
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
Rolled back the clouds) the morrow caught 

his eye. 
Or that 'twas chance, or some remembered 

scene. 
That raised his arm to point where such had 

been. 
Scarce Kaled seemed to know, but turned 

away. 
As if his heart abhorred that coming day, 
And shrunk his glance before that morning 

light, 
To look on Lara's brow — where all grew 

night. 
Yet sense seemed left, though better were its 

loss; 
For when one near displayed the absolving 

cross. 
And proffered to his touch the holy bead, 
Of which his parting soul might own the need, 
He looked upon it with an eye profane. 
And smiled — Heaven pardon 1 if 'twere with 

disdain : 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor with- 
drew 
From Lara's face his fixed despairing view. 
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 
Flung back the hand which held the sacred 

gift. 
As if such but disturbed the expiring man, 
Nor seemed to know his life but then began, 
That life of Immortality, secure 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is 

sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew. 
And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 
His limbs stretched fluttering, and his head 

drooped o'er 
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
He pressed the hand he held upon his heart — 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in 

vain. 
For that faint throb which answers not again. 
"It beats!" — Away, thou dreamer! he is 

gone — 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon.i 



' [The death of Lara is, by far, the finest passage 
in the poem, and is fully equal to any thing else 
which the author ever wrote. The physical horror 
of the event, though described with a terrible force 
and fidelity, is both relieved and enhanced by the 
beautiful pictures of mental enerey and affection 
with which it is combined. The whole sequel of 
the poem is written with equal vigor and feeling, 



LARA. 



445 



XXI. 

Jle gazed, as if not yet had passed away 
The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 
And those around have roused him from his 

trance, 
But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 
And when, in raising him from where he bore 
Within his arms the form that felt no more, 
He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 
He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
The g'ossy tendrils of his raven hair. 
But strove to stand and gaze, but reeled and 

fell, 
Scarce breathing more than that he loved so 

well. 
Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 
The breast of man such trusty love may 

breathe ! 
That trying moment hath at once revealed 
The secret long and yet but half concealed ; 
In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
Its grief seemed ended, but the sex confessed ; 
And life returned, and Kaled felt no shame — 
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 

XXII, 

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep. 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound. 
Though priest nor blessed nor marble decked 

the mound ; 
And he was mourned by one whose quiet grief. 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Vain was all question asked her of the past. 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seemed but little kind. 
Whv did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be 

'still — 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 
To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes 

discern, 
And when they love, your smilers guess not 

how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips 

avow. 
They were not common links, that formed 

the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain ; 
But that wild tale she brooked not to unfold, 
And sealed is now each lip that could have 

told. 

XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast. 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest. 



and may be put in competition with any thing that 
poetry has produced, in point either of pathos or 
energy. — ^r^rf^.j 



They found the scattered dints of many a scar. 
Which were not planted there in recent war; 
Where'er had passed his summer years of life, 
It seems they vanished in a land of strife; 
But all unknown his glorv or his guilt. 
These onlv told that somewhere blood was 

spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past. 
Returned no more — that night appeared his 

last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that crossed the intervening vale.i 



1 The event in this section was suggested by the 
description of the death, or rather burial, of the 
Duke of Gandia. The most interesting and partic- 
ular account of it is given by Burchard, and is in 
substance as follows: — " On the eighth day of June, 
the Cardinal of Valenza and the Duke of Gandia, 
sons of the Pope, supped with their mother, Vanozza, 
near the church of 5". Pietro ad vhicnla; several 
other persons being present at the entertainment. 
A late hour approaching, and the cardinal having 
reminded his brother, that it was time to return to 
the apostolic palace, they mounted their horses or 
mules, with only a {^w attendants, and proceeded 
together as far as the palace of Cardinal Ascanio 
Sforza, when the duke informed the cardinal that, 
before he returned home, he had to pay a visit of 
pleasure. Dismissing therefore all his attendants, 
excepting his stafficro, or footman, and a person in 
a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at supper, 
and who, during the space of a month or there- 
abouts, previous to this time, had called upon hint 
almost daily, at the apostolic palace, he took this 
person behind him on his mule, and proceeded to 
the street of the Jews, where he quitted his servant, 
directing him to remain there until a certain hour; 
when, if he did not return, he might repair to the 
palace. The duke then seated the person in the 
mask behind him, and rode, I know not whither; 
but in that night he was assassinated, and thrown 
into the river. The servant, after having been dis- 
missed, was also assaulted and mortally wounded; 
and although he was attended with great care, yet 
such was his situation, that he could give no intel- 
ligible account of what had befallen his master. In 
the morning, the duke not having returned to the 
palace, his servants began to be alarmed; and one 
of them informed the pontiff of the evening excur- 
sion of his sons, and that the duke had not yet made 
his appearance. This gave the pope no small anxi- 
ety; but he conjectured that the duke had been at- 
tracted by some courtesan to pass the night with 
her, and, not choosing to quit the house in open 
day, had waited till the following evening to return 
home. When, however, the evening arrived, and 
he found himself disappointed in his expectations, 
he became deeply afflicted, and began to make in- 
quiries from different persons, whom he ordered to 
attend him for that purpose. Amongst these was a 
man named Giorgio Schiavoni, who, having dis- 
charged some timber from a bark in the river, had 
remained on board the vessel to watch it; and being 
interrogated whether he had seen any one thrown 
into the river on the night preceding, he replied, 
that he saw two men on foot, who came down the 
street, and looked diligently about, to observe 



446 



LARA. 



When Cynthia's Ught almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veiled in mist her waning horn ; 
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood. 
And hew the bough that bought his children's 

food, 
Passed by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman 

broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burden at his saddle-bow, 
Bant was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time. 
And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watched the stranger's 

course. 
Who reached the river, bounded from his 

horse, 



whether any person was passing. That seeing no 
one, they returned, and a short time afterwards two 
others came, and looked around in the same manner 
as the former; no person still appearing, they gave 
a sign to their companions, when a man came, 
mounted on a white horse, having behind him a 
dead body, the head and arms of which hung on 
one side, and the feet on the other side of the horse; 
the two persons on foot supporting the body, to pre- 
vent its falling. They thus proceeded towards that 
part where the filth of the city is usually discharged 
into the river, and turning the horse, with his tail 
towards the water, the two persons took the dead 
body by the arms and feet, and with all their strength 
flung it into the river. The person on horseback 
then asked if they had thrown it in; to which they 
replied, Si^nor, si (yes, sir). He then looked to- 
wards the river, and seeiiig a mantle floating on the 
stream, he inquired what it was that appeared black, 
to which they answered, it was a mantle; and one 
of them threw stones upon it, in consequence of 
which it sunk. The attendants of the pontiff then 
inquired from Giorgio, why he had not revealed 
this to the governor of the city; to which he replied, 
that he had seen in his time a hundred dead bodies 
thrown into the river at the same place, without any 
inquiry being made respecting them; and that he 
had not, therefore, considered it as a matter of any 
importance. The fishermen and seamen were then 
collected, and ordered to search the river, where, on 
the following evening, they found the body of the 
duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his 
purse. He was pierced with nine vvoiuids, one of 
which was in his throat, the others in his head, body, 
and limbs. No sooner was the pontiff informed of the 
death of his son, and that he had been thrown, like 
filth, into the river, than, giving way to his grief, he 
shut himself up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. 
The Cardinal of Segovia, and other attendants on 
the pope, went to the door, and after many hours 
spent in persuasions and exhortations, prevailed 
upon him to admit them. From the evening of 
Wednesday till the following Saturday the pope took 
no food; nor did he sleep from Thursday morning 
till the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, 
however, giving way to the entreaties of his attend- 
ants, he began to restrain his sorrow, and to con- 
sider the injury which his own health might sustain, 
by the further indulgence of his grief." — Roscoe^s 
Leo Tenth, vol. i. p. 265. 



And lifting thence the burden which he bore 1 
Heaved up the bank, and dashed it from thej 

shore, ! 

Then paused, and looked, and turned, and 

seemed to watch. 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that flowed, 
As if even yet too much, its surface showed: 
At once he started, stooped, around him strown 
Thewinter floods had scattered heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gathered there, 
And slung them with a more than common 

care. 
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this migh* 

mean ; 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
And something glittered starlike on the vest ; 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant 1 

trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again, but indistinct to view," 
And left the waters of a purple hue. 
Then deeply disappeared : the horseman gazed 
Till ebbed the latest eddy it had raised ; 
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed. 
An instant spurred him into panting speed. 
His face was masked —the features of the 

dead. 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he perished. Heaven receive his soul! 
His undiscovered limbs to ocean roll; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 

XXV. 
And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone. 
Alike without their monumental stone ! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering where her chieftain's blood 

had been ; 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire ; 
But left to waste her weary moments there, 
She talked all idly unto shapes of air, 
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 
And she would sit beneath the very tree 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 447 



As if she stanched anew some phantom's 

wound. 
Herself would question, and for him reply; 
Then risinsf, start, and beckon him to fly 
From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 



Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
And hide her visage with her meagre hand. 
Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved; 
Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY HIS 
January 22, 1816. FRIEND. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

" The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into 
the heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di Romania, the most considerable place in all 
that country, 1 thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, upon which they made several storms. 
The garrison being weakened, and the governor seeing it was impossible to hold out against so mighty a 
force thought it fit to beat a parley : but while they were treating about the articles, one of the magazines 
in the Turkish camp, wherein they had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six 
or seven hundred men were killed; which so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant any capitu- 
lation, but stormed the place with so much fury, that they took it, and put most of the garrison, wjth 
Signior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio Bempo, proveditor extraordinary, 
were made prisoners of war." — History of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 



INTRODUCTION. 



The " Siege of Corinth," which appears, by the original MS., to have been begun in July, 1815, 
made its appearance in January, 1816. Mr. Murray having inclosed Byron a thousand guineas for the 
copyright of this poem and of " Parisina," he replied — " Your offer is liberal in the extreme, and much 
more than the two poems can possibly be worth; but I cannot accept it, nor will not. You are most wel- 
come to them as additions to the collected volumes; but I cannot consent to their separate publication. 

^ Napoli di Romania is not now the most considerable place in the Morea, but Tripolitza, where the 
Pacha resides, and maintains his government. Napoli is near Argos. I visited all three in 1810-11 ; 
and, in the course of journeying through the country from my first arrival, in 1809, I crossed the Isthmus 
eight times in my way from Attica to the Morea, over the mountains, or in the other direction, when pas- 
sing from the Gulf of Athens to that of Lepanto. Both the routes are picturesque and beautiful, though 
very different: that by sea has more sameness: but the voyage being always within sight of land, and 
often very near it, presents many attractive views of the islands Salamis, ^gi-na, Po*% «tc • and th« 
coast of the Continent. 



448 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



I do not like to risk any fame (whether merited or not) which I have been favored with upon composi- 
tions which I do not feel to be at all equal to my own notions of what they should be; though they may 
do very well as things without pretension, to add to the publication with the lighter pieces. I have in- 
closed your draft torn, for fear of accidents by the way — I wish you would not throw temptation in mine 
It is not from a disdain of the universal idol, nor from a present superfluity of his treasures, I can assure 
you, that I refuse to worship him; but what is right is right, and must not yield to circumstances. I am 
very glad that the kajidtiiritrng ^as a favorable omen of the morale of the piece; but you must not 
trust to that, for my copyist would write out any thing I desired, in all the ignorance of innocence — I 
hope, however, in this instance, with no great peril to either." The copyist was Lady Byron. Byron 
gave Mr. Gifford carte bla^tche to strike out or alter any thing at his pleasure in this poem, as it was 
passing through the press ; and the reader will be amused with the varies lectiones which had their ori- 
gin in this extraordinary confidence. 



In the year since Jesus died for men, 
Eighteen hundred years and ten, 
We were a gallant company, 
Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
Oh ! but we went merrily ! 
We forded the river, and clomb the high hill. 
Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 
Whether we couched in our rough capote, i 
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat. 
Or stretched on the beach, or our saddles 

spread 
As a pillow beneath the resting head, 
Fresh we woke ui^on the morrow : 

All our thoughts and words had scope, 

We had health, and we. had hope. 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
Some were those who counted beads. 
Some of mosque, and some of church. 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search. 

Nor find a mother crew nor blither. 

But some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scattered and alone, 
And some are rebels on the hills 2 



^ [In one of his sea excursions, Byron was nearly 
lost in a Turkish ship of war, owing to the igno- 
rance of the captain and crew. " Fletcher," he 
says, " yelled; the Greeks called on all the saints; 
the Mussulmans on Alia; while the captain burst 
into tears, and ran below deck. I did what I could 
to console Fletcher; but finding him incorrigible, 
I wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote, and 
lay down to wait the worst." This nistance of the 
poet's coolness and courage is thus confirmed by 
Mr. Hobhouse: —" Finding that, from his lame- 
ness, he was unable to be of any service in the ex- 
ertions which our very serious danger called for, 
after a laugh or two at the panic of his valet, he not 
only wrapped himself up and lay down, in the 
manner he has described, but when our difficulties 
were terminated was found fast asleep."] 

2 The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one 



That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Where freedom still at moments rallies 
And pays in blood oppression's ills ; 

And some are in a far countree, 
And some all restlessly at home ; 

But never more, oh ! never, we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily, 

And when they now fall drearily. 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth, and through the air, 

A wild bird and a wanderer. 

'Tis this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay, 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — wilt thou follow now, 

And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 



Many a vanished year and age, 
And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands, 
A fortress formed to Freedom's hands.3 
The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's 

shock. 
Have left untouched her hoary rock, 
The keystone of a land, which still. 
Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 
Tiie landmark to the double tide 
That purpling rolls on either side, 
As if their waters chafed to meet. 
Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
But could the blood before her shed 
Since first Timoleon's brother bled,4 

of the Arnaouts who followed me) state him to be 
in revolt upon the mountains, at the head of some 
of the bands common in that country in times of 
trouble. 

3 [In the original MS. — 

" A marvel from her Moslem bands."] 

* [Timoleon, who had saved the life of his 
brother Timophanes in battle, afterwards killed him 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



449 



Or baffled Persia's despot fled. 
Arise from out tlie earth which drank 
The stream of slaughter as it sank, 
That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 
Her isthmus idly spread below : 
Or could the bones of ail the slain. 
Who perished there, be piled again, 
That rival pyramid would rise 
More mountain-like, through those clear 

skies, 
Than yon tower-capped Acropolis, 
Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

II. 

On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitched, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
And the dusk Spahi's bands i advance 
Beneath each bearded paclia's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turbaned cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,2 
The sabre round his loins to gird : 
And there the volleying thunders pour 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
And from that wall the foe replies, 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 

III. 
But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall, 
With deeper skill in war's black art. 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and deed to deed. 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well. 
Remains as yet impregnable. 



for aiming at the supreme power in Corinth, pre- 
ferring his duty to his country to all the obligations 
of blood. Dr. Warton says, that Pope once in- 
tended to write an epic poem on the story, and that 
Dr. Akenside had the same design.] 

^ [Turkish holders of military fiefs, which oblige 
them to join the army, mounted at their own ex- 
pense.] 

■^ The life of the Turcomans is wandering and 
patriarchal : they dwell in tents. 



Alighting cheerly to inspire 

The soldier slackening in his fire ; 

The first and freshest of the host 

Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 

To guide the follower o'er the field. 

To point the tube, the lance to wield, 

Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 

Was Alp, the Adrian renegade I 

IV, 

From Venice — once a race of worth 

His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 

But late an exile from her shore, 

Against his countrymen he bore 

The ari/^s they taught to bear ; and now 

The turban girt his shaven brow. 

Through many a change had Corinth passed 

With Greece to Venice' rule at last; 

And here, before her walls, with those 

To Greece and Venice equal foes, 

He stood a foe, with all the zeal 

Which young and fiery converts feel, 

Within whose heated bosom throngs 

The memory of a thousand wrongs. 

To him had Venice ceased to be 

Her ajicient civic boast — " the Free ; " 

And in the palace of St. Mark 

Unnamed accusers in the dark 

Within the " Linn's mouth" had placed 

A charge against him uneffaced : 

He fled in time, and saved his life, 

To waste his future years in strife. 

That taught his land how great her loss 

In him who triumphed o'er the Cross, 

'Gainst which he reared the Crescent high, 

And battled to avenge or die. 



Coumourgi ^ — he whose closing scene 
Adorned the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
The last and mightiest of the slain. 
He sank, regretting not to die, 
But cursed the Christian's victory — 
Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 



3 Ali Coumourgi, the favorite of three sultans, 
and Grand Vizier to Achmet III., after recovering 
Peloponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, 
was mortally wounded in the next, against the 
Germans, at the battle of Peterwaradin (in the 
plain of Carlowitz), in Hungary, endeavoring to 
rally his guards. He died of his wounds next day. 
His last order was the decapitation of General 
Breuner, and some other German prisoners; and 
his last words, " Oh that I could thus serve all the 
Christian dogs! " a speech and act not unlike one 
of Caligula. He was a young man of great ambi- 
tion and unbounded presumption: on being told 
that Prince Eugene, then ornosed to him, "was a 
great general," he said, " I sh 1 become a greater, 
and at his expense." 



450 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred vears have rolled away 
Since he refixed tlie Moslem's sway, 
And now he led the Mussuhnan, 
Ani u;ave the guidance of the van 
To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
By cities levelled with the dust ; 
And proved, by many a deed of death, 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 



The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 

Against them poured the ceaseless shot, 

With unabating fury sent 

From battery to battlement ; 

And thunder-like the pealing din 

Rose from each heated culverin ; 

And here and there some crackling dome 

Was fired before the exploding bomb. 

And as the fabric sank beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 

In red and wreathing columns flashed 

The flame, as loud the ruin crashed. 

Or into countless meteors driven, 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 

Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 

Impervious to the hidden sun, 

With volumed smoke that slowly grew 

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 

VII. 
But not for vengeance, long delayed, 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade. 
The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
Within these wails a maid was pent 
His hope would win without consent 
Of that inexorable sire. 
Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 
Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
In happier mood, and earlier time. 
While unimpeached for traitorous crime, 
Gayest in gondola or hall, 
He glittered through the Carnival ; 
And tuned the softest serenade 
That e'er on Adria's waters played 
At midnight to Italian maid.i 

VIII. 

And many deemed her heart was won ; 
For sought by numbers, given to none, 
Had young Francesca's hand remained 
Still by the church's bonds unchained: 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
And pensive waxed the maid and pale ; 
More constant at confessional. 



[MS. — 

" In midnight courtship to Italian maid."] 



More rare at masque and festival ; 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
Which conquered hearts they ceased to 

prize : 
With listless look she seems to gaze : 
Widr humbler care her form arrays; 
Her voice less lively in the song ; 
Her step, though light, less fleet among 
The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 
Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 



Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand 
While Sobieski tamed his pride 
By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From Patra to Euboea's bay,) 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers, 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece; 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
With him his gentle daughter came ; 
Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love. 
Had fairer form adorned the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 

X. 

The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow's earhest dawn. 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
The bands are ranked ; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn. 
And win their way with falchion's force, 
Or pave the path with many a i-orse, 
O'er which the following brave may rise. 
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 

XI. 

'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown 
The cold, round moon shines deeply down, 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
Who ever gazed upon them shining 
And turned to earth without repining. 
Nor wished for wings to flee away. 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on either shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 
But murmured meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillowed on the waves; 
The banners drooped along their staves. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



451 



And, as they fell aj^ound them furling, 

Above them shone the crescent curling; 

And that deep silence was unbroke, 

Save where the watch his signal spoke, 

Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill, 

And echo answered from the hill, 

And the wide hum of that wild host 

Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 

As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 

In midnight call to wonted prayer; 

It rose, that chanted mournful stiain, 

Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain: 

'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet. 

And take a long unmeasured tone, 

To mortal minstrelsy unknown.! 

It seemed to those within the wall 

A cry prophetic of their fall : 

It struck even the besieger's ear 

With something ominous and drear, 

An undefined and sudden thrill, 

Which makes the heart a moment still, 

Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 

Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 

Such as a sudden passing-bell 

Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell.2 



The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 

The sound was hushed, the prayer was o'er ; 

The watch was set, the night-round made. 

All mandates issued and obeyed : 

'Tis but another anxious night. 

His pains the morrow may requite 

With all revenge and love can pay, 

In guerdon for their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter ; but within his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 

He stood alone among the host ; 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 

Or risk a life with little loss. 

Secure in paradise to be 

By Houris loved immortally : 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel. 

The stern exaltedness of zeal. 

Profuse of blood, untired in toil. 

When battling on the parent soil. 

He stood alone — a renegade 

Against the country he betrayed ; 

He stood alone amidst his band, 

Wthout a trusted heart or hand : 

They followed him, for he was brave. 

And great the spoil he got and gave ; 

They crouched to him, for he had skill 



[MS. — "And make a melancholy moan, 

To mortal voice and ear unknown."] 

[MS. — " Which rings a deep, internal knell, 
A visionary passing-bell."] 



To warp and wield the vulgar will : 

But still his Christian origm 

With them was little less than sin. 

They envied even the faithless fame 

He earned beneath a Moslem name ; 

Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 

In youth a bitter Nazarene. 

They did not know how pride can stoop, 

When baffled feelings withering droop; 

They did not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stern; 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

The convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 

By ever daring to be first ; 

So lions o'er the jackal sway; 

The jackal points, he fells the prey ,3 

Then on the vulgar yelling press, 

To gorge the relics of success. 

XIII. 

His head grows fevered, and his pulse 
The quick successive throbs convulse; 
In vaui from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of repose ; ■* 
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
The turban on his hot brow pressed. 
The mail weighed lead-like on his breast, 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
Without or couch or canopy, « 

Except a rougher field and sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's bed. 
Than now along the heaven was spread. 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 
But walked him forth along the sand. 
Where thousand sleepers strewed the strand. 
What pillowed them ? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be. 
Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands passed 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wandered on. 
And enviedi all he gazed upon. 

XIV. 
He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky, though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm. 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 

3 [MS. — "As lions o'er the jackal sway 

By springing dauntless on the prey; 
They follow on, and yelling press 
To gorge the fragments of success."] 

* [MS. — " He vainly turned from side to side. 
And each reposing posture tried."] 



452 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow. 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime ; 
It will not melt, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less formed to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest. 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest. 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture like a hovering shroud. 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled. 
And lingered on tlie spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh ! still her step at moments falters 
O'er withered fields, and ruined altars. 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken. 
By pointing to each glorious token : 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remembered rays 
Which shone upon the Persian flying. 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 



Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
And through this night, as on he wandered 
^nd o'er the past and present pondered. 
And thought upon the glorious dead 
Who there in better cause had bled, 
He felt how faint and feebly dim 
The fame that could accrue to him. 
Who cheered the band, and waved the 

sword, 
A traitor in a turbaned horde ; 
And led them to the lawless siege. 
Whose best success were sacrilege. 
Not so had those his fancy numbered. 
The chiefs whose dust around him slum- 
bered ; 
Their phalanx marshalled on the plain, 
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
They fell devoted, but undying; 
The very gale their names seemed sighing : 
The waters murmured of their name ; 
The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
The silent pillar, lone and gray. 
Claimed kindred with their sacred clay ; 
Their spirits wrapped the dusky mountain. 
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain : 
The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
Rolled mingling with their fame forever. 
Despite of every yoke she bears. 
That land is glory's still and theirs ! i 



1 [Here follows, in MS. — 

" Immortal — boundless — undecayed — 
Their souls the very soil pervade."] 



'Tis still a watch-word to the earth : 
When man would do a deed of worth 
He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head : 
He looks to her, and rushes on 
Where life is lost, or freedom won.2 

XVI. 
Still by the shore Alp mutely mused. 
And wooed the freshness Night diffused. 
There shrinks no ebb in^that tideless sea,3 
Which changeless rolls eternally; 
So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a 

rood; 
And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 
Heedless if she come or go: 
Calm or high, in main or bay 
On their course she hath no sway. 
The rock unworn its base doth bare. 
And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 
And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
On the line that it left long ages ago : 
A smooth short space of yellow sand 
Between it and the greener land. 

He wandered on, along the beach. 
Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
Of the leaguered wall ; but they saw him not, 
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? * 
Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 
Were their hands grown stiff", or their hearts 

waxed cold ? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flashed no fire, and there hissed no 

ball. 
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown. 
That flanked the sea-ward gate of the town ; 
Though he heard the sound, and could almost 

tell 
The sullen words of the sentinel, 
As his measured step on the stone below 
Clanked, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carnival.^ 
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb; 
They were too busy to bark at him ! 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripped the 

flesh. 
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter 

skull,6 

2 [MS.— 

" Where Freedom loveliest may be won."] 

3 The reader need hardly be reminded that there 
are no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 

* [MS. — " Or would not waste on a single head 

The ball on numbers better sped."] 
'' [Omit the rest of this section. — Gifford.^ 
" This spectacle I have seen, such as described, 

beneath the wall of the Seraglio, at Constantinople. 

in the little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



\:% 



As it sli;)ped through their jaws, when their 

edge grew dull, 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
When they scarce could rise from the spot 

where they fed ; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for that night's re- 
past. i 
And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled on 

the sand. 
The foremost ofthese were the best of his band : 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their 

wear. 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,^ 
All the rest was shaven and bare. 
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw. 
The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf. 
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away. 
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay. 
Picked by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 



Alp turned him from the sickening sight : 
Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
But he better could brook to behold the dying. 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying ,8 
Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing 

in vain. 
Than the perishing dead who are past all 

pain.4 
There is something of pride in the perilous 

hour, 
Whate'er be the shape in which death may 

lower ; 
For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
And Honor's eye on daring deeds ! 
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead.s 
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the 

air, 

rock, a narrow terrace of which projects between 
the wall and the water. I think the fact is also 
mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies 
were probably those of some refractory Janizaries. 

1 [This passage shows the force of Lord Byron's 
pencil. — 7ej^>'ey.'\ 

- This tuft, or long lock, is left from a supersti- 
tion, that Mahomet will draw them into Paradise 
by it. 

3 [Than the mangled corpse in its own blood 
lying. — Gifford.'\ 
< [Strike out — 
" Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in 
vain, 
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain." 
What is a " perishing dead? " —Gifford.'] 

^ [O'er the weltering limbs of the tombless dead. 
- Gifford.'\ 



Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
All regarding man as their prey, 
All rejoicing in his decay.6 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 
Fashioned by long forgotten hands ; 
Two or three columns, and many a stone, 
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 
Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 
Of the things to come than the things before ! 
Out upon Time I who for ever will leave 
But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
O'er that which hath been, and o'er that 

which must be : 
What we have seen, our sons shall see; 
Remnants of things that have passed away. 
Fragments of stone, reared by creatures of 

clay I 8 

XIX. 

He sate him down at a pillar's base,9 

And passed his hand athwart his face ; 

Like one in dreary musing mood, 

Declining was his attitude ; 

His head was drooping on his breast, 

Fevered, throbbing, and oppressed ; 

And o'er his brow, so downward bent. 

Oft his beating fingers went. 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over the ivory key 

Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 

There he sate all heavily. 

As he heard the night-wind sigh. 

Was it the wind through some hollow stone, 

Sent that soft and tender moan ? w 



6 [MS.— 

" All that liveth on man will prey, 
All rejoice in his decay, 
AH that can kindle dismay and disgust 
Follow his frame from the bier to the dust."] 
^ [Omit this couplet. — Gifford.~\ 
8 [After this follows in MS.— 
" Monuments that the coming age 
Leaves to the spoil ot the seasons' rage — 
Till Ruin makes the relics scarce, 
Then Learning acts her solemn farce, 
And, roaming through the marble waste, 
Prates of beauty, art, and taste. 

XIX. 

" That Temple was more in the midst of the plain; 

What of that shrine did yet remain 

Lay to his left "] 

" [From this, all is beautiful to — 
" He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there." 

Gifford.\ 

"> I must here acknowledge a close, though unin- 
tentional, resemblance in these twelve lines to a 
passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, 
called " Christabel." Tt was not till after these 
lines were written that I heard that wild and singii- 



454 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



He lifted his head, and he looked on the 

sea, 
But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 
He looked on the long grass — it waved 

not a blade ; 
How was that gentle sound conveyed ? 
He looked to the banners — each flag lav 

still. 
So did the leaves on Cithaeron's hill, 
And he felt not a breath come over his 

cheek ; 
What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 
He turned to the left — is he sure of sight ? 
There sate a lady, youthful and bright 1 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers 1 what is here ? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament ? " 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deemed no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour. 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he 9«w : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of giace ; 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride ! 

The rose was yet upon her cheek. 
But mellowed with a tenderer streak : 
Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 
Gone was the smile that enlivened their 

red. 
The ocean's calm within their view, 
Beside her eye had less of blue ; 
But like that cold wave it stood still. 
And its glance,! though clear, was chill. 
Around her form a thin robe twining. 
Nought concealed her bosom shining; 



larly original and beautiful poem recited; and the 
MS. of that production I never saw till very recently, 
by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, I 
hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful 
plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains 
to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed 
above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope 
\hat he will not longer delay the publication of a 
production, of which I can only add my mite of 
approbation to the applause of far more competent 
judges. — [The luies in " Christabel" are these: — 
" The night is chill, the forest bare, 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? 
There is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 
From the lovely lady's cheek — 
There is not wind enough to twirl 
The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
That dances as often as dance it can, 
Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 
On the topmost twig that looks at the sky."] 
* [And its thrilling glance, etc. — Gifford.l 



Through the parting of her hair. 
Floating darkly downward there, 
Her rounded artn showed white and bare: 
And ere yet she made reply. 
Once she raised her hand on high ; 
It was so wan, and transparent of hue. 
You might have seen the moon shine 
through. 

XXI. 

" I come from my rest to him I love best. 
That I may be happy, and he may be blessed. 
I have passed the guards, the gate, the wall ; 
Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 
From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
And the power on high, that can shield the good 
Thus from the tyrant of the wood. 
Hath extended its tnercy to guard me as well 
From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
I come — and if I come in vain. 
Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
Thou hast done a fearful deed 
In falling away from thy father's creed: 
But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine ; 
Wring the black drop from thy heart. 
And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

" And where should our bridal couch be 

spread ? 
In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and 

flame 
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 
Shall be left upon the morn : 
But thee will I bear to a lovely spot. 
Where our hands shall be joined, and our 

sorrow forgot. 
There thou yet shall be my bride. 
When once again I've quelled the pride 
Of Venice ; and her hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase ; 
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrilled to the bone, 

And shot a chillness to his heart. 

Which fixed hiin beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear. 

As those thin fingers, long and white, 

Froze through his blood by their touch that 

night. 
The feverish glow of his brow was gone. 
And his heart sank so still that it felt like 

stone. 
As he looked on the face, and beheld its hue, 
So deeply changed from what he knew : 



TfJE SIEGE OF CORWril. 



455 



Fair but faint — without the ray 
Of mind, that made each feature play 
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 
And her motionless lips lay still as death, 
And her words came forth without her breath. 
And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's 

swell, 
Anil there seemed not a pulse in her veins to 

dwell. 
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were 

fixed, 
And the glance that it gave was wild and 

unmixed 
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare. 
Stirred by tlie breath of the wintry air,i 
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light. 
Lifeless, Vjut life-like, and awful to sight ; 
As they seem, through the dimness, about to 

come down 
From the shadowy wall where their images 

frown ; 2 
Fearfully flitting to and fro. 
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
" If not for love of me be given 
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
Again I say — that turban tear 
From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
Or thou art lost; and never shalt see — 
Not earth — that's past — but heaven or me. 
If this thou dost accord, albeit 
A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet. 
That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 
And mercy's gate may receive thee within : 
But pause one moment more, and take 
The curse of Him thou didst forsake; 
And look once more to heaven, and see 
Its love for ever shut from thee. 
There is a light cloud by the moon — 3 



1 [MS.— 
" I/ike a picture, that magic had charmed from its 
frame, 

Lifeless but life-like, and ever the same."] 

* [In the summer of 1803, when in his sixteenth 
year, Byron, though offered a bed in Annesley, 
used at first to return every night to sleep at New- 
stead; alleging as a reason, that he was afraid of 
the family pictures of the Chaworths; that he fan- 
cied " they had taken a grudge to him on account 
of the duel." Moore thinks this passage may have 
been suggested by the recollection of these pictures.] 

3 I have been told that the idea expressed in this 
and the five following lines has been admired by 
those whose approbation is valuable. I am glad ot 
it: but it is not original — at least not mine; it may 
be found much better expressed in pages 182-3-4 of 
the English version of" Vathek " (I forget the pre- 
cise page of the FVench), a work to which I have 
before referred; and never recur to, or read, with- 
out a renewal of gratification. — [The following is 
the passage: — " ' Deluded prince! ' said the Genius, 
addressing the Caliph, ' to whom Providence hath 



'Tis passing, and will pass full soon — 
If, by the time its vapory sail 
Hath cased her shaded orb to veil. 
Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged ; 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp looked to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turned aside, 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

Rolled like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He dismayed 

By wild words of a timid maid I 

He, wronged by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 

No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 

And charge to crush him — let it burst 1 

He looked upon it earnestly. 
Without an accent of reply ; 
He watched it passing; it is flown : 
Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 
I am no changeling — 'tis too late: 
The reed in storms .may bow and quiver, 
Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 
What Venice made me, I must be. 
Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
But thou art safe : oh, fly with me ! " 
He turned, but she is gone ! 
Nothing is there but the column stone. 
Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ? 
He saw not — he knew not — but nothing 
is there. 

XXII. 

The night is past, and shines the sun 
As if that morn were a jocund one.^ 
Lightly and brightly breaks away 
The Morning from her mantle gray, 

confided the care of innumerable subjects ; is it thus 
that thou fulfiliest thy mission? Thy crimes are 
already completed; and art thou now hastening to 
thy punishment? Thou knowest that beyond those 
mountains Eblis and his accursed dives hold their 
infernal empire; and seduced by a malignant phan- 
tom, thou art proceeding to surrender thyself to 
them! This moment is the last of grace allowed 
thee: give back Nouronahar to her father, who still 
retains a few sparks of life; destroy thy tower, with 
all its abominations: drive Carathis from thy coun- 
cils: be just to thy subjects: respect the ministers 
of the prophet: compensate for thy impieties by an 
exemplary life; and, instead of squandering thy 
days in voluptuous indulgence, lament thy crimes 
on the sepulchres of thy ancestors. Thou hehold- 
est the clouds that obscure the sun: at the instant 
he recovers his splendor, if thy heart be not changed, 
the time of mercy assigned thee will be past for 
ever."] 

^ [Leave out this couplet. — Giff'ord.\ 



456 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



And the Noon will look on a sultry day.i 

Hark to the trump and the drum, 

And the mournful sound of the barbarous 
horn, 
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're 
borne, 

And the neigli of the steed, and the multi- 
tude's hum, 
And the clash, and the shout, " They come 1 
they come ! " 

The horsetails'^ are plucked from the ground, 
and the sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait 
for tlie word. 

Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 

Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 

Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 

'I'hat the fugitive may flee in vain, 

When he breaks from the town ; and none 
escape, 

Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 

While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 

Bloodstain the breach through which they 
pass.3 

The steeds are bridled, and snort to the rein 

Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane 

White is the foam of their champ on the bit 

The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit 

The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 

And crush the wall they have crumbled be- 
fore :* 

Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; 

Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 

So is the blade of his scimitar; 

The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 

The vizier himself at the head of the host. 

When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 

Leave not in Corinth a living one — 

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her 
walls. 

God and the prophet — Alia Hu! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

"There the breach lies for passage, the ladder 
to scale ; 

And your hands on your sabres, and how 
should ye fail ? 

He who first downs with the red cross may 



1 [Strike out — 
" And the Noon will look on a sultry day." — C] 
- [The horsetails, fixed upon a lance, a pacha's 
standard.] 

3 [Omit — 
" While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass. 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass." 
Gifford^^ 
* [" And crush the wall they have shaken before." 

Gifford.\ 
^ [" He who first downs with the red cross may 
crave," etc.] What vulgarism is this! — 



His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and \ 

have I " 
Thus uttered Coumourgi, the dauntless 

vizier; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and 

spear, 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous 

ire : — 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire 1 

XXIII. 
As the wolves, that headlong go 
On the stately buffalo. 
Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 
And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 
The foremost, who rush on his strength but to 

die 
Thus against the wall they went. 
Thus ihe first were backward bent ; 6 
Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
Strewed the earth like broken glass. 
Shivered by the shot, that tore 
The ground whereon they moved no more : 
Even as they fell, in files they lay. 
Like the mower's grass at the close of day. 
When his work is done on the levelled plain; 
Such was the fall of the foremost slain.'' 

XXIV. 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 

From the cliffs invading dash 

Huge fragments, sapped by the ceaseless flow. 

Till white and thundering down they go. 

Like the avalanche's snow 

On the Alpine vales below ; 

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft renewed 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness they stood, and in masses they 

fell. 
Heaped by the host of the infidel, 
Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 
Nothing there, save death, was mute; 
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 
For quarter, or for victory. 
Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 
Which makes the distant cities wonder 
How the sounding battle goes. 
If with them, or for their foes ; 
If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
In that annihilating voice. 
Which pierces the deep hills through and 

through 
With an echo dread and new : 

"He who lowers, — or plucks down,'" etc. — 
Giford.] 

•^ [Thus against the wall they bent, 

Thus the first were backward sent. — C] 
'' [Such was the fall of the foremost train. — G.^ 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



457 



You might have heard it, on that day, 
O'er Salamis and Megara; 
(We have heard the hearers say,) 
Even unto Piraeus' bay. 



From the point of encountering blades to the 

hilt, 
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 
But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun. 
And all but the after carnage done. 
Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
From within the plundered dome : 
Hark to the haste of flying feet, 
That splash in the blood of the slippery 

street ; 
But here and there, where 'vantage ground 
Against the foe may still be found. 
Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 
Make a pause, and turn again — 
With banded backs against the wall, 
Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man i — his hairs were 

white, 
But his veteran arm was full of might: 
So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray. 
The dead before him, on that day. 
In a semicircle lay. 
Still he combated unwounded. 
Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
Many a scar of former fight 
Lurked '^ beneath his corslet bright ; 
But of every wound his body bore, 
Each and all had been ta'en before: 
Though aged, he was so iron of Hmb, 
Few of our youth could cope with him ; 
And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 
Outnumbered his thin hairs 3 of silver 

gray. 
From right to left his sabre swept : 
Many an Othman mother wept 
Sons that were unborn, when dipped •* 
His weapon first in Moslem gore, 
Ere his years could count a score. 
Of all he might have been the sire^ 
Who fell that day beneath his ire : 
For, sonless left long years ago. 
His wrath made many a childless foe; 
And since the day, when in the strait 6 
His only boy had met his fate. 
His patent's iron hand did doom 

' [There stood a man, etc. — Gifford.'\ 
- y'' Lurked ^^ a bad word — say" Was hidy 
— Gi/rord.] 

Outnumbered his hairs, etc. — C] 
Sons that were unborn, when he dipped. — C] 
Bravo ! — this is better than King Priam's fifty 
sons. — GiffordA 

•^ In the naval battle at the mouth of the Darda- 
nelles, between the Venetians and Turks. 



More than a human hecatomb.7^ 
If shades by carnage be appeased, 
Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
Than his, Minotti's son, who died 
Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
Buried he lay, where thousands before 
For thousands of years were inhumed on 

the shore ; 
What of them is left, to tell 
Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their 

graves 
But they live in the verse that immortally 

saves. 

XXVI. 

Hark to the Allah shout ! 8 a band 

Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at 

hand : 
Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them 

on; 
Thus in the fight is he ever known : 
Others a gaudier garb may show. 
To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 
Many a hand's on a richer hilt. 
But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 
Many a loftier turban may wear, — 
Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis 

there ! 
There is not a standard on that shore 
So well advanced the ranks before ; 
There is not a banner in Moslem war 
Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 
It glances like a falling star ! 
Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
The bravest be, or late have been ; 9 
There the craven cries for quarter 
Vainly to the vengeful Tartar; 
Or the hero, silent lying, 
Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
Mustering his last feeble blow 
'Gainst the nearest levelled foe. 
Though faint beneath the mutual wound. 
Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect, 
And Alp's career a moment checked. 
" Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take. 
For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 
" Never, renegado, never! 
Though the life of thy gift would last for 
ever." '^^ 



'' [There can be no such thing; but the whole of 
this IS poor and spun out. — C] 

" ^Hark to the Alia Hu ! etc. — G.'\ 

Omit the remainder of the section. — Gifford.^ 
In the original MS. — 
' Though the life of thy giving would last for ever."] 



45S 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



" Francesca ! — Oh, my promised bride ! i 

Must she too perish by thy pride ? " 

" She is safe." — " Where ? where ? " — " In 

heaven ; 
From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
Far from thee, and undefikd." 
Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
As he saw Alp staggering bow 
Before his words, as with a blow. 

"Oh God! when died she?" — "Yester- 
night — 
Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 
None of my pure race shall be 
Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 
Come on ! " — That challenge is in vain — 
Alp's already with the slain ! 
While Minotti's words were wreaking 
More revenge in bitter speaking 
Than his falchion's point had found, 
Had the time allowed to wound. 
From within the neighboring porch 
Of a long defended church, 
Where the last and desperate few 
Would the failing fight renew. 
The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground ; 
Ere an eye could view the wound 
That crashed through the brain of the infi- 
del. 
Round he spun, and down he fell ; 
A flash like fire within his eyes 
Blazed, as he bent no more to rise. 
And then eternal darkness sunk 
Through all the palpitating trunk; 2 
Nought of life left, save a quivering 
Where his limbs were slightly shivering: 
They turned him on his back; his breast 
And brow were stained with gore and dust, 
And through his lips the life-blood oozed. 
From its deep veins lately loosed ; 
But in his pulse there was no throb. 
Nor on his lips one dying sol:> ; 
Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
Heralded his way to death : 
Ere his very thought could pray, 
Unanealed he passed away, 
Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 
To the last — a Renegade. 

XXVIII. 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers, and his foes ; 

These in joy, in fury tliose : 3 

Then again in conflict mixing. 

Clashing swords, and spears transfixing. 



1 [MS.— 

"Where's Francesca? — my promised bride! " 

2 [Here follows in MS.— 

" Twice and once he rolled a space, 
Then lead-like lay upon his face."] 

3 [MS. — " These in rage, in triumph those."] 



Interchanged the blow and thrust, 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, and foot by foot, 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command; 

With him, aiding heart and hand, 

The remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable. 

Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall. 

When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell; 

Thither bending sternly back, 

They leave before a bloody track; 

And, with their faces to the foe. 

Dealing wounds with every blow,^ 

The chief, and his retreating train, 

Join to those within the fane ; 

There they yet may breathe awhile, 

Sheltered by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing-time ! the turbaned host, 
With adding ranks and raging boast. 
Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 
For narrow the way that led to the spot 
Where still the Christians yielded not ; 
And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 
They perforce must do or die. 
They die ; but ere their eyes could close. 
Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 
Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
The ranks unthinned, though slaughtered 

still ; 
And faint the weary Christians wax 
Before the still renewed attacks : 
And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 
Still resists its iron weight, 
And still, all deadly aimed and hot. 
From every crevice comes the shot ; 
From every shattered window pour 
The volleys of the sulphurous shower : 
But the portal wavering grows and weak—. 
The iron yields, the hinges creak — 
It bends — it falls — and all is o'er; 
Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
Madonna's face upon him shone. 
Painted in heavenly hues above. 
With eyes of light and looks of love ; 
And placed upon that holy shrine 
To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
When pictured there, we kneeling see 
Her, and the boy-God on her knee. 
Smiling sweetly on each prayer 



■* [Dealing death with every blow. — Gifford.\ 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



459 



To heaven, as if to waft it there, 

Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 

Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 

Minotti lifted his aged eye, 

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 

Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 

And still he stood, while, with steel and 

flame, 
Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contained the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor. 

But now illegible with gore ; 

The carved crests, and curious hues 

The varied marble's veins diffuse. 

Were smeared, and slippery — stained, and 

strown 
With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 
There were dead above, and the dead below 
Lay cold in many a coffined row ; 
You might see them piled in sable state, 
By a yjale light through a gloomy grate ; 
But War had entered their dark caves. 
And stored along the vaulted graves 
Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
In masses by the fleshless dead : 
Here, throughout the siege, had been 
The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 
To these a late formed train now led, 
Minotti's last and stern resource 
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 

XXXII. 
The foe came on, and few remain 
To strive, and those must strive in vain : 
For lack of further lives, to slake 
The thirst of vengeance now awake. 
With barbarous blows they gash the dead. 
And lop the already lifeless head. 
And fell the statues from their niche, 
And spoil the shrines of offerings rich. 
And from each other's rude hands wrest 
The silver vessels saints had blessed. 
To the high altar on they go ; 
Oh, but it made a glorious show! l 
On its table still behold 
The cup of consecrated gold ; 
Massy and deep, a glittering prize. 
Brightly it sparkles to plundert- rs' eyes : 
That morn it held the holy wine, 
Converted by Christ to his blood so divine. 
Which his worshippers drank at the break 

of day 
To shrive their souls ere they joined in the 

fray. 
Still a few drops within it lay ; 
And round the sacred table glow 



1 [" Oh, but it made a glorious show ! ! 
tfford.} 



Out.- 



Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 

From the purest metal cast ; 

A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

XXXIII. 

So near they came, the nearest stretched 
To grasp the spoil he almost reached, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touched with the torch the train — 

' Tis fired ! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turbaned victors, the Christian band. 
All that of living or dead remain. 
Hurled on high with the shivered fane, 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shattered town — the walls thrown 

down — 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake passed — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 2 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorched and shrivelled to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strewed the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
SWhe fell in the gulf, which received the 

sprinkles 
With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away. 
Scattered o'er the isthmus lay; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they? 
Let their mothers see and say ! 
When in cradled rest they lay, 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child. 
Little deemed she such a day 
Would rend those tender hmbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more ; 
That one moment left no trace 
More of human form or face 
Save a scattered scalp or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay. 
All blackened there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
That deadly earth-shock disappeared : 
The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead ; ^ 

2 [Strike out from "Up to the sky," etc. to "All 
blackened there and reeking lay." Despicable 
stuff. — Giford.'] 

3 [Omit the next six lines. — Giff'ord.\ 



460 



PARISmA. 



The camels from their keepers broke ; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh 
Deep-mouthed arose, and doubly harsh ; 
The wolves yelled on the caverned hill 
Where echo rolled in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gathered cry.l 
Bayed from afar complainingly, 
With a mixed and mournful sound, 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 2 



^ I believe I have taken a poetical license to 
transplant the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never 
saw nor heard these animals; but among the ruins 
of Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. "They 
haunt ruins, and follow armies. 

2 [Leave out this couplet. — Gifford.'\ 



With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
The eagle left his rocky nest, 
And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him seemed so dun; 
Their smoke assailed his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Cormth lost and won 1 ^ 



3 [The " Siege of Corinth," though written, per- 
haps, with too visible an effect, and not very well 
harmonized in all its parts, cannot but be regarded 
as a magnificent composition. There is less misan- 
thropy in it than in any of the rest; and the interest 
is made up of alternate representations of soft and 
solemn scenes and emotions, and of the tumult, and 
terrors, and intoxication of war. These opposite 
pictures are, perhaps, too violently contrasted, and, 
in some parts, too harshly colored; but they are in 
general exquisitely designed, and executed with the 
utmost spirit and energy. — 7effrey.'\ 



PARISINA. 



TO SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED 

BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS 

FRIENDSHIP. 



January 22, 1816. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in Gibbon's " Antiquities of the House 
of Brunswick." I am aware, that in modern times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem 
such subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old 
English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon 
the Continent. The following extract will explain the facts on which the story is founded. The name of 
Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 

" Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of 
an attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife 
Parisina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle 
by the sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and survived their execution.^ He 



1 [" Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated; but the castle still exists entire; and I saw the court 
where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon." — B. Letters, 1817.] 



PARISINA. 461 



was unfortunate, if they were guilty: if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate; nor is there 
any possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the last act of the justice of a parent." — Gib- 
bon's Miscellaneous W^orks, vol. iii. p. 470. 



INTRODUCTION 



Parisina was written in London in the autumn of 181 5, and published in February, 1816. The his- 
torical facts on which it was founded are detailed in the following passage in Frizzi's History of 
Ferrara. 

" This turned out a calamitous year for the people of Ferrara; for there occurred a very tragical event 
in the court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed and in manuscript, with the exception of the 
unpolished and negligent work of Sardi, and one other, have given the following relation of it, — from 
which, however, are rejected many details, and especially the narrative of Bandelli, who wrote a century 
afterwards, and who does not accord with the contemporary historians. 

" By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, the Marquis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, 
a beautiful and ingenuous youth. Parisina Malatesta, second wife of Niccolo, like the generality of step- 
mothers, treated him with little kindness, to the infinite regret of the Marquis, who regarded him with 
fond partiality. One day she asked leave of her husband to undertake a certain journey, to which he 
consented, but upon condition that Ugo should bear her company; for he hoped by these means to induce 
her, in the end, to lay aside the obstinate aversion which she had conceived against him. And indeed 
his intent was accomplished but too well, since, during the journey, she not only divested herself of all 
her hatred, but fell into the opposite extreme. After their return, the Marquis had no longer any occa- 
sion to renew his former reproofs. It happened one day that a servant of the Marquis, named Zoese, or, 
as some call him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments of Parisina, saw going out from them one of her 
chamber-maids, all terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, she told him that her mistress, for some 
slight offence, had been beating her; and, giving vent to her rage, she added, that she could easily be 
revenged, if she chose to make known the criminal familiarity which subsisted between Parisina and her 
step-son. The servant took note of the words, and related them to his master. He was astounded 
thereat, but, scarcely believing his ears, he assured himself of the fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 18th of 
May, by looking through a hole made in the ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into a 
furious rage, and arrested both of them, together with Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, 
and also as some say, two of the women of her chamber, as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them 
to be brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to pronounce sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon 
the culprits. This sentence was death. Some there were that bestirred themselves in favor of the delin- 
quents, and, amongst others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all powerful with Niccolo, and also his aged 
and much deserving minister Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flowing down their cheeks, and 
upon their knees, implored him for mercy; adducing whatever reasons they could suggest for sparing 
the offenders, besides those motives of honor and decency which might persuade him to conceal from the 
public so scandalous a deed. But his rage made him inflexible, and, on the instant, he commanded that 
the sentence should be put in execution. 

" It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and exactly in those frightful dungeons which are seen a»: 
this day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot of the Lion's tower, at the top of the street 
Giovecca, that on the night of the 21st of May were beheaded, first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. 
Zoese, he that accused her, conducted the latter under his arm to the place of punishment. She, all 
along, fancied that she was to be thrown into a pit, and asked at every step, whether she was yet come 
to the spot? She was told that her punishment was the axe. She inquired what was become of Ugo, and 
received for answer, that he was already dead; at the which, sighing grievously, she exclaimed, ' Now, 
th*n, I wish not myself to live; ' and, being come to the block, she stripped herself with her own hands 
of all her ornaments, and wrapping a cloth round her head, submitted to the fatal stroke, which termi- 
nated the cruel scene. The same was done with Rangoni, who, together with the others, according to 



462 



PARISINA. 



two calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was buried in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else 
is known respecting the women. 

" The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dreadful night, and, as he was walking backwards and 
forwards, inquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo was dead yet? who answered him, Yes. He then 
gave himself up to the most desperate lamentations, exclaiming, ' Oh ! that I too were dead, since I have 
been hurried on to resolve thus against my own Ugo! ' And then gnawing with his teeth a cane which he 
had in his hand, he passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, calling frequently upon his own 
dear Ugo. On the following day, calling to mind that it would be necessary to make public his justifica- 
tion, seeing that the transaction could not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative to be drawn out upon 
paper, and sent it to all the courts of Italy. 

" On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Francesco Foscarl, gave orders, but without publishing 
his reasons, that stop should be put to the preparations for a tournament, which, under the auspices of 
the Marquis, and at the expense of the city of Padua, was about to take place, in the square of St. Mark, 
i.i order to celebrate his advancement to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquis, in addition to what he had already done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, 
commanded that as many of the married women as were well known to him to be faithless, like his Pari- 
sina, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others, Barberina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, 
wife of the court judge, imderwent this sentence, at the usual place of execution; that is to say, in the 
quarter of St. Giacomo, opposite the present fortress, beyond St. Paul's. It cannot be told how strange 
appeared this proceeding in a prince, \\\\o, considering his own disposition, should, as it seemed, have 
been in such cases most indulgent. Some, however, there were who did not fall to commend him." 

The above passage of Frizzi was translated by Byron, and formed a closing note to the original edition 
of " Parisina." 



It is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard ; 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 
Seem sweet in every whispered word 

And gentle winds, and waters near, 

Make music to the lonely ear. 

Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 

And in the sky the stars are met, 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the leaf a browner hue, 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, 

So softly dark, and darkly pure, 

Which follows the decline of day, 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.i 

II. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall, 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly 

light 
That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 
And if she sits in Este's bower, 
'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 
She listens — but not for the nightingale — 
Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 



^ The lines contained in this section were printed 
as set to uuisic some time since, but belonged to the 
poem where they now appear; tlie greater part of 
which was composed prior to " Ls^r^," 



There glides a step through the foliage thick, 
And her cheek grows pale — and her heart 

beats quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling 

leaves, 
And her blush returns, and her bosom 

heaves : 
A moment more — and they shall meet — 
'Tis past — her lover's at her feet. 

III. 

And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide ? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had passed away, 

They only for each other breathe ; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay, 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts whicli feel its fiery sway: 

Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 

In that tumultuous tender dream ? 

Who that have felt that passion's power, 

Or paused or feared in such an hour ? 

Or thought how brief such moments last? 

But yet — they are already past ! 

Alas ! we must awake beibre 

We know such vision comes pp more. 



PARISINA. 



463 



IV. 

With many a lingering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieve, 

As if that parting were the las'. 
The frequent sigh — tiie long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for ever, 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven shefears will not forgive her, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart. 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fevered in her sleep she seems, 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And clasps her Lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away : 
And he to that emlDrace awakes, 
x^nd, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress. 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 
He clasped her sleeping to his heart, 

And listened to each broken word : 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start. 

As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb. 
When he shall wake to sleep no more. 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doomed to cease. 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
Which rolls tlie plank upon the shore. 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
And whose that name? 'tis Hugo's, — his — 
In sooth he had not deemed of this! — 
"I'is Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth. 
When he betrayed Bianca's truth, 



The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 

VII. 
He plucked his poniard in its sheath, 

But sheathed it ere the point was bare — 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping — there — 
Nay more : — he did not wake her then, 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from hei 
trance, 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleamed on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slum- 
bered — 
While, in his thought, her days are num- 
bered. 

VIII. 

And with the morn he sought, and found, 
In many a tale from those around. 
The proof of all he feared to know. 
Their present guilt, his future woe ; 
The long-conniving damsels seek 

To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to 
her: 
Concealment is no more — they speak 
All circumstance which may compel 
Full credence to the tale they tell : 
And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
Have nothing more to feel or hear. 



He was not one who brooked delay : 

Within the chamber of his state, 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of judgment sate; 
His nobles and his guards are there, — 
Before him is the sinful pair; 
Both young, — and otie how passing fair ! 
With swordless belt, and fettered hand, 
Oh, Christ! that thus a son should stand 

Before a father's face ! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire. 
And hear the sentence of his ire. 

The tale of his disgrace ! 
And yet he seems not overcome, 
Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 

X. 

And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering 
room. 
Where high-bom men were proud to wait — 
Where Beauty watched to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
And gather from her air and gait 



464 



PARISINA. 



The graces of its queen : 
Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords had sheathless shone. 
And made her quarrel all their own. 
Now, — what is she ? and what are they ? 
Can she command, or these obey ? 
All silent and unheeding now. 
With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
And tolded arms, and freezing air. 
And lips that scarce their scorn forbear. 
Her knights, and dames, her court — is 

there : 
And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
Had yet been couched before her glance. 
Who — were his arm a moment free — 
Had died or gained her liberty ; 
The minion of his father's bride, — 
He, too, is fetiered by \\Si side ; 
Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
Less for her own despair than him : 
Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 
Wandering, leaves a tender stain. 
Shining through the smoothest white 
That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
Now seemed with hot and livid glow 
To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 
Which glance so heavily, and fill. 
As tear on tear grows gathering still. 



And he for her had also wept, 

But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 

Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
Whate'er the grief his soul avowed, 
He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
But yet he dared not look on her : 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fi^te — 
And hers, — oh, hers ! — he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow 1 
Else had his rising heart betrayed 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 

XII. 

And Azo spake : — " But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son ; 
That dream this morning passed away; 

Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone ; 
Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not 

one 
Who would not do as I have done : 
Those ties are broken — not by me ; 

Let that too pass ; — the doom's prepared ! 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee. 

And then — thy crime's reward 1 
Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 



Before its evening stars are met — 
Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 

Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
But here, upon the earth beneath. 

There is no spot where thou and I 
Together, for an hour, could breathe : 

Farewell! I will not see thee die — 
But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head-- 

Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 

Go ! woman of the wanton breast ; 
Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 
Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
And joy thee in the life I give." 



And here stern Azo hid his face — 
For on his brow the swelling vein 
Throbbed as if back upon his brain 
The hot blood ebbed and flowed again ; 

And therefore bowed he for a space, 

And passed his shaking hand along 
His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 

While Hugo raised his chained hands, 

And for a brief delay demands 

His father's ear : the silent sire 

Forbids not what his words require. 

" It is not that I dread the death — 
For thou hast seen me by thy side 
All redly through the battle ride, 
And that not once a useless brand 
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand 
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine. 
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 

Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 
A gift for which I thank thee not; 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot. 
Her slighted love and ruined name, 
Her offspring's heritage of shame; 
But she is in the grave, where he. 
Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 
Her broken heart — my severed head — 
Shall witness for thee from the dead 
How trusty and how tender were 
Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
'Tis true that I have done thee wrong — 

But wrong for wrong : — this, deemed thy 
bride 

The other victim of thy pride. 
Thou knowest for me was destined long. 
Thou saw'st, and coveted'st her charms — 

And with thy very crime — my birth, 

Thou taunted'st me — as little worth ; 
A match ignoble for her arms. 
Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
The lawful heirship of thy name, 
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 
Yet, were a few short summers mine, 
My name should more than Este's shine 
With honors all my own. 
I had a sword — and have a breast 



PARISWA. 



465 



That should have won as haught 1 a crest 

As ever waved along the hne 

Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 

Not always knightly spurs are worn 

The brightest by the better born ; 

And mine have lanced my courser's fiank 

Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 

When charging to the cheering cry 

Of ' Este and of Victory ! ' 

I will not plead the cause of crime, 

Nor sue thee to redeem from time 

A few brief hours or days that must 

At length roll o'er my reckless dust; — 

Such maddening moments as my past, 

They could not, and they did not. last. 

Albeit my birth and name be base. 

And thy nobility of race 

Disdained to deck a thing like me — 

Yet in my lineaments they trace 

Some features of my father's face. 
And in my spirit — all of thee. 
From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 
From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou 

start ? — 
From thee in all their vigor came 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 
Thou didst not give me life alone. 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done 1 
Repaid thee w ith too like a son ! 
I am no bastard in my soul. 
For that, like thine, alShorred control: 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
I valued it no more than thou. 
When rose thy casque above thy brow. 
And we, all side by side, have striven, 
And o'er the dead our coursers driven: 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would I that I then had died : 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in shame. 
My life begun and ends the same : 
As erred the sire, so erred the son. 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worse to human view. 
But God must judge between us too ! " 

XIV. 

He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded. 
Of all the chiefs that there were ranked, 



1 Haught — haughty. — " Away, haught man, 
thou art insulting me." — Shakspeare. 



When those dull chains in meeting 
clanked : 
Till Parisina's fatal charms 2 
Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus liear him doomed to die! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still. 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide. 
Not once had turned to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose. 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gathered slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
And those who saw, it did surprise. 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat, 
Yet seemed in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
And to the earth she fell like stone 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
More like a thing that ne'er had life, — 
A monument of Azo's wife, — 
Than her, that living guilty thing, 
Whose every passion was a sting, 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt's detection and despair. 
But yet she lived — and all too soon 
Recovered from that death-like swoon — 
But scarce to reason — every sense 
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 
And each frail fibre of her brain 

2 [" I sent for ' Marmion,' because it occurred to 
me, there might be a resemblance between part of 
' Parisina,' and a similar scene in the second canto 
of ' Marmion.' I fear there is, though I never 
thought of it before, and could hardly wish to imi- 
tate that which is inimitable. I wish you would 
ask Mr. Gifford whether I ought to say any thing 
upon it. I had completed the story on the passage 
from Gibbon, which indeed leads to a like scene 
naturally, without a thought of the kind: but it 
comes upon me not very comfortably'. " — Lord 
Byron to Mr. M., February 3, 1816. — The scene 
referred to is the one in which Constance de Bev- 
erley appears before the conclave — 

" Her look composed, and steady eye, 
Bespoke a matchless constancy ; 
And there she stood so calm and pale. 
That, but her breathing did not fail. 
And moiicm slight of eye and head. 
And of her bosom, warranted, 
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks. 
You must have thought a form of wax, 
Wrought to the very life, was there — 
So still she \/2&, so pale, so fair."] 



466 



PARiSiMA. 



(As bowstrings, when relaxed by rain, 

The erring arrow launch aside) 

Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 

The past a blank, the future black, 

With glimpses of a dreary track. 

Like lightning on the desert path. 

When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 

She feared — she felt that something ill 

Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 

That there was sin and shame she knew; 

That some one was to die — but who ? 

She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 

Could this be still the earth beneath. 

The sky above, and men around ; 

Or were they fiends who now so frowned 

On one, before whose eyes each eye 

Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 

All was confused and undefined 

To her all jarred and wandering mind; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 

And now in laughter, now in tears, 

But madly still in each extreme. 

She strove with that convulsive dream ; 

For so it seemed on her to break: 

Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake 1 

XV. 

The Convent bells are ringing, 

But mournfully and slow; 
In the gray square turret swinging, 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go ! 
Hark! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below. 

Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
For a departing being's soul 
The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells 

knoll: 
He is near his mortal goal ; 
Kneeling at the Friar's knee : 
Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
With the block before and the guards 

around — 
And the headsman with his bare arm ready. 
That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge anew : 
While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the 
Father! 

XVI. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 
Before the summer sun shall set, 
Which rose upon tliat heavy day, 
And mocked it with his steadiest ray ; 
And his evening beams are shed 
Full on Hugo's fated head. 
As his last confession pouring 
To the monk, his doom deploring. 
In penitential holiness, 



He bends to hear his accents bless 
With absolution such as may 
Wipe our mortal stains away. 
That high sun on his head did glisten 
As he there did bow and listen — 
And the rings of chestnut hair 
Curled half down his neck so bare ; 
But brighter still the beam was thrown 
Upon the axe which near him shone 

With a clear and ghastly glitter 

Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even the stern stood chilled with awe: 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shuddered as they saw. 

XVII. 
The parting prayers are said and over 
Of that false son — and daring lover! 
His beads and sins are all recounted. 
His hours to their last minute mounted — 
His mantling cloak before was stripped. 
His bright brown locks must now be clipped ; 
'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 
The vest which till this moment worn — 
The scarf which Parisina gave — 
Must not adorn him to the grave. 
Even that must now be thrown aside, 
And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 
But no — that last indignity 
Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 
All feelings seemingly subdued. 
In deep disdain were half renewed. 
When headsman's hands prepared to bind 
Those eyes which would not brook such 

blind : 
As if they dared not look on death. 
" No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 
These hands are chained — but let me die 
At least with an unshackled eye — 
Strike : " — and as the word he said, 
Upon the block he bowed his head ; 
These the last accents Hugo spoke : 
" Strike" — and flashing fell the stroke — 
Rolled the head — and, gushing, sunk 
Back the stained and heaving trunk. 
In the dust, which each deep vein 
Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 
His eyes and lips a moment quiver. 
Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 
He died, as erring man should die. 

Without display, without parade ; 

Meekly had he bowed and prayed. 

As not disdaining priestly aid. 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the Prior kneeling, 
His heart was weaned from earthly feeling; 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour! 
No more reproach — no more despair; 
No thought but heaven — no word but 

prayer — 
Save the few which from him broke, 



PARISWA. 



467 



When, bared to meet the headsman's 

stroke, 
He claimed to die with eyes unbound, 
His sole adieu to those around. 

XVIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 
Each gazer's bosom held his bi\ ath : 
But yet, afar, from man to man, 
A cold electric shiver ran, 
As down the deadly blow descended 
On him whose life and love thus ended ; 
And, with a hushing sound compressed, 
A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 
But no more thrilling noise rose there. 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen 
shock, 
Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 
So madly shrill, so passing wild ? 
That, as a mother's o'er her child, 
Done to death by sudden blow, 
To the sky these accents go, 
Like a soul's in endless woe. 
Through Azo's palace-lattice driven. 
That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 
And every eye is turned thereon ; 
But sound and sight alike are gone! 
It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
In madlier accents rose despair; 
And those who heard it, as it passed, 
In mercy wished it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour. 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banished from each lip and ear. 

Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son ; 

No tomb — no memory had they ; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day. 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the cofifin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode. 

And won to heaven her dreary road. 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Or scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

For that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if, upon the moment smote. 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block, 

With heart that shared the headsman's 

shock. 
In quickened brokenness that came. 
In pity, o'er her shattered frame. 
None knew — and none can ever know : 



But whatsoe'er its end below. 
Her lite began and closed in woe ! 

XX. 

Anv^ Azo found another bride. 
And goodly sons grew by his side; 
But none so lovely and so brave 
As him who withered in the grave ; 
Or if they were — on his cold eye 
Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
Or noticed with a smothered sigh. 
But never tear his cheek descended. 
And never smile his brow unbended ; 
And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 
The intersected lines of thought ; 
Those furrows which the burning share 
Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there; 
Scars of the lacerating mind 
Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 
He was past all mirth or woe : 
Nothing more remained below 
But sleepless nights and heavy days, 
A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 
A heart which shunned itself — and yet 
That would not yield — nor could forget, 
Which, when it least appeared to melt, 
Intensely thought — intensely felt: 
The deepest ice which ever froze 
Can only o'er the surface close — 
The living stream lies quick below. 
And flows — ^and cannot cease to flow. 
Still was his sealed-up bosom haunted 
By thoughts which Nature hath im- 
planted ; 
Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
Howe'er our stifled tears we banish ; 
When, struggling as they rise to start, 
We check those waters of the heart. 
They are not dried — those tears unshed 
But flow back to the fountain head. 
And resting in their spring more pure, 
For ever in its depth endure, 
Unseen, unwept, but uncongealed, 
And cherished most where least revealed. 
With inward starts of feeling left. 
To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
Without the power to fill again 
The desert gap which made his pain ; 
Without the hope to meet them where 
United souls shall gladness sliare. 
With all the consciousness that he 
Had only passed a just decree ; 
That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 
Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
The tainted branches of the tree. 

If lopped with care, a strength may 
give. 

By ^hich the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe. 



468 



THE PR ISOMER OF CHILLON. 



The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. i 



1 [In Parisina there is no tumult or stir. It is all 
sadness, arid pity, and terror. There is too much 



of horror, perhaps, in the circumstances ; but the 
writing is beautiful throughout, and the whole 
wrapped in a rich and redundant veil of poetry, 
where every thing breathes the pure essence of 
genius and sensibility. — Jeffrey.^ 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON: A FABLE.^ 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind 1 2 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 

Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

When this poem was composed, I was not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should 
have endeavored to dignify the subject by an attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues. With 
some account of his life I have been furnished, by the kindness of a citizen of that republic, which is 
still proud of the memory of a man worthy of the best age of ancient freedom: — 

" Francois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, originaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, 
naquit en 1496. II fit ses etudes a Turin : en 1510 Jean Aime de Bonnivard, son oncle, lui resigna le 
Prieure de St. Victor, qui aboutissoit aux murs de Geneve, et qui formoit un benefice considerable. 



^ [Byron wrote this poem at a small inn, in the litde village of Ouchy, near Lausanne, where he hap- 
pened, in June, 1816, to be detained two days by stress of weather; " thereby adding," says Moore, "one 
more deathless association to the already immortalized localities of the Lake."/ 

2 [In the first draught, the sonnet opens thus — 

" Beloved Goddess of the chainless mind! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, 
Thy palace is within the Freeman's heart. 
Whose soilT the love of thee alone can bind; 
• And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
Thy joy is with them still, and unconfined. 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom."] 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



469 



" Ce grand homme— (Bonnivard mdrite ce titre par la force des on ame, la droiture deson coeur, la 
noblesse de ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de ses d-marches, I'dtendue de ses con- 
naissances et la vivacitd de son esprit), — ce grand homme, qui excitera I'admiration de tons ceux qu'une 
vertu h^roique peut encore emouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans les coeurs des 
Genevois qui aiment Geneve. Bonnivard en fut toujours un des plus formes appuis : pour assurer la 
liberie de notre R^publique, il ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la sienne; il oublia son repos; il 
meprisa ses richesses; il ne negligea rien pour affermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de son choix: 
dfes ce moment il la cherit comme le plus zeld de ses citoyens; il la servit avec I'intrepiditd d'un heros, 
et il ecrivit son Histoire avec la naivete d'un philosophe et la chaleur d'un patriote. 

" II dit dans le commencement de son Histoire de Geneve, que, des quil cut commence de lire V his- 
toire des tiatio7is, il se entit entraifie par soti goiit pour Ics Repjibliques, dont il epousa toujours 
les iiitercts : c'est ce gout pour la liberie qui lui fit sans doute adopter Geneve pour sa patrie. 

" Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonga hautement comme le defenseur de Geneve contra le Due de 
Savoye et I'Eveque. 

"En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie: Le Due de Savoye etant entrd dans Geneve 
avec cinq cent hommes, Bonnivard craint le ressentiment du Due; il volut se retirer a Fnbourg pour 
en e viler les suites; mais il fut trahi par deux hommes qui I'accompagnoient, et conduit par ordre du 
Priiice a Grolee, ou il resta prisonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etoit malheureux dans ses voyages: 
comme ses malheurs n'avoient point ralenli son zele pour Geneve, il ^toit toujours un ennemi redout- 
able pour ceux qui la menagoient, et par consequent il devoit etre expose a leurs coups. II fut rencontr^ 
en 1530 sur le Jura par des voleurs, qui le depouillerent, et qui le mirent encore entre les main diiOuc 
de Savoye: ce prince le fit en fermer dans le Chateau de Chillon, ou il resta sans etre interroge jusques 
en 1536; il fut alors delivre par les Bernois, qui s'empar^rent du Pays de Vaud. 

" Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir de trouver Geneve libre et reformee: la Rdpub- 
lique s'empressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance, et de le dedommager des maux qu'il avoit soufferts; 
elle le regut Bourgeois de la ville au mois de Juin, 1536; elle lui donna la maison habitee autrefois par 
le Vicaire-G^neral, et elle lui assigna une pension de deux cent ^cus d'or tant qu'il sejourneroit a 
Geneve. II fut admis dans le Conseil de Deux-Cent en 1537- 

" Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : apres avoir travaille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre 
toleranle. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder aux ecclesiastiques et aux paysans un terns suffi- 
sant pour examiner les propositions qu'on leur faisoit; il reussit par sa douceur: on preche toujours le 
Christianisme avec succes quand on le preche avec charlte. 

" Bonnivard fut savant : ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la Bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avoit 
bien lu les auteurs classiques latins, et qu'il avoir approfondi la iheologie et I'histoire. Ce grand homme 
aimoit les sciences, et il croyoit qu'elles pouvoient faire la gloire de Geneve; aussi il ne negligea rien 
pour les fixer dans cette ville naissante; en 1551 il donna sa bibliotheque au publique; elle fut le com- 
mencement de notre bibliotheque publique; et ces livres sont en partie les rares et belles Editions du 
quinzieme siecle qu'on voit dans notre collection. Enfin, pendant la meme annde, ce bon patriote insti- 
tua la Republique son h^ritiere, a condition qu'elle employeroit ses biens a entretenir le college dont on 
projettoit la fondation. 

" II paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; mais on ne peut I'assurer, parcequ'il y a une lacune dans 
le Necrologe depuis le mois de Juillet, 1570, jusques en 1571." 



I. 

My hair is gray, but not with years, 

Nor grew it white 

In a single night.l 
As men's have grown from sudden fears. 



^ Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is 
asserted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis the 
Sixteenth, though not in quite so short a period- 



My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose,"'^ 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 
And mine has been the fate of those 

Grief is said to have the same effect: to such, and 
not to fear, this change in hers was to be attributed. 
2 [Original MS.— 

" But with the inward waste of grief."] 



470 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



To whom the goodly earth and air 

Are banned, and barred — forbidden fare; 

but this was for my father's faith 

I suffered chains and courted death ; 

That father perished at the stake 

For tenets he would not forsake; 

And for the same his lineal race 

In darkness found a dwelling-place; 

We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth and one in age, 
Finished as they had begun. 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 1 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have sealed : 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied ; — 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
There are seven columns massy and gray, 
DiAi' with a dull imprisoned ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left : 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes. 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother drooped and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 



They chained us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone : 
We could not move a single pace. 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight : 
And thus together — yet apart. 
Pattered in hand, but joined in heart; 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To harken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope or legend old. 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 



An echo of the dungeon stone, 
A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy — but to me 

They never sounded like our own. 



I was the eldest of the three. 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven. 
For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distressed 
To see such bird in such a nest; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay. 
With tears for nought but others' ills, 
And then they flowed like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorred to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind. 
But formed to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perished in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit withered with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had followed there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
And fettered feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 
Lake Leman Hes by Chillon's walls. 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement.2 



[MS.— 
" Braving rancour — chains — and rage." ] 



- The Chateau de Chillon is situated between 
Ciarens and Villeneuve, wiiich last is atone extrem- 
ity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the en- 
trances of the Rhone, and opposite are the heights 
of Meillerie and the range of Alps above Boveret 
and St. Gingo. Near it, on a hill behind, is a 
torrent: below it, washing its walls, the lake has 
been fathomed to the depth of 800 feet, French 




The Prisoner of Chillon. 



THE PRISONER OF CHFLLON. 



471 



Which round aVjout the wave inthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knocked 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in tlie happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rocked, 

And I have felt it shake, unshocked, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 
I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare. 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moistened many a thousand years. 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died.i 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 
To rend and gnash 2 my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlocked his chain, 
And scooped for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begged them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 



measure: within it are a range of dungeons, in which 
the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of 
state, were confined. Across one of the vaults is a 
beam black with age, on which we were informed 
that the condemned were formerly executed. In 
the cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, one 
being half merged in the wall; in some of these are 
rings for the fetters and the fettered : in the pave- 
ment the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces. 
He was confined here several years. It is by this 
castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of 
his H^loTse, in the rescue of one of her children by 
Julie from the water; the shock of which, and the 
illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of 
her death. The chateau is large, and seen along 
the lake for a great distance. The walls are white. 

1 [MS.— 
" But why withhold the blow? — he died."] 

» [MS. — " To break or bite."] 



Might shine — it was a foolish thought. 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laughed — and laid him there : 
The fiat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love; 
His empty chain above it leant. 
Such murder's fitting monument! 



But he, the favorite and the flower, 

Most cherished since his natal hour, 

His mother's image in fair face. 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyred father's dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free ; 

He. too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 

Oh, God I it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : — 

I've seen it rushing "forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmixed with such — but sure and slow: 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So teariess, yet so tender — kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days. 

A little hope my own to raise. 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less: 

I listened, but I could not hear — 

I called, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound. 

And rushed to him : — I found him not, 

/only stirred in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 



472 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place.i 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist. 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
It was not night — it was not day. 
It was not even the dungeon-light. 
So hateful to my heavy sight. 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness — without a place; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no 

crime — 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again. 

The sweetest song ear ever heard. 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 
1 saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done. 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perched, as fond and tame. 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 

1 [The gentle decay and gradual extinction of the 
youngest life is the most tender and beautiful pas- 
sage in the poem. — Jeffrey. ^ 



A lovely bird, with azure wings, 

And song that said a thousand things, 

And seemed to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seemed like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again. 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought nie back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visit, int from Paradise; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
I sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew. 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone - - as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate. 
My keepers grew compassionate ; 
I know not what had made them so. 
They were inured to sights of woe, 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfastened did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell frorn side to side. 
And up and down, and then athwart. 
And tread it over every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod. 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed. 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 
I made a footing in the wall, • 

It was not therefrom to escape. 
For I had buried one and all 

Who loved me in a human shape; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



473 



I thought of this, and I was glad, 

For thought of them had made me mad ; 

But I was curious to ascend 

To my barred windows, and to bend 

Once more, upon the mountains high_ 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 

I 'saw them — ^^and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below.i 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channelled rock and broken bush; 
I saw the white-walled distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle,^ 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view; 
A small green isle, it seemed no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing. 
And on it there were young flowers growins 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seemed joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seemed to fly. 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again. 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 



1 [MS.- 

" I saw them with their lake below, 
And their three thousand years of snow."] 

- Between the entrances of the Rhone and Ville- 
neuve, not far from Chillon, is a very small island; 
the only one I could perceive, in my voyage round 
and over the lake, within its circumference. It 
contains a few trees (I think not above three), and 
from its singleness and diminutive size has a pecu- 
liar effect upon the view. 



Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much oppressed, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I asked not why, and recked not where, 
It was at length the same to me. 
Fettered or fetterless to be, 

I learned to love despair. 
And thus when they appeared at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own! 
And half I feit as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watched them in their sullen trade. 
Had seen the mice by moonligjit play, 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place. 
And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learned to dwell — 3 
My very chains and I grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regained my freedom with a sigh.* 



3 [Here follow in MS.— 
" Nor slew I of my subjects one — 

What sovereign | J.'j'-oJ.l' j ha.hdone?"] 

* [It will readily be allowed that this singular 
poem is more powerful than pleasing. The dun- 
geon of Bonnivard is, like that of Ugolino, a sub- 
ject too dismal fir even the power of the painter or 
poet to counteract its horrors. It is the more dis- 
agreeable as aftbrding human hope no anchor to rest 
upon, and describing the sufferer, though a man of 
talents and virtues, as altogether inert and power- 
less under his accumulated sufferings; yet, as a 
picture, however gloomy tlie coloring, it may rival 
any which Lord Byron has drawn: nor is it possible 
to read it without a sinking of the heart, corre- 
sponding with that which he describes the victim to 
have suffered. — Sir Walter Scott.\ 



MAZEPPA. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

" Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un gentilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, n^ dans le 
palatinat de Padolie: il avait ete eleve page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris asa cour quelque teinture des 
belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant 
6t6 d^couverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet ^tat. Le cheval, 
qui dtait du pays de I'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quel- 
ques paysans le secoururent : il resta longtems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses centre les 
Tartares. La superiority de ses lumi^res liii donna luie grande consideration parmi les Cosaques: sa 
reputation s'augmentant de jour en jour, obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." — Voltaire, 
ffisi. de Charles XII. p. 196. 

" Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tu^ sous lui; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout 
son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a cheval, dans la fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait 
pu y monter pendant la bataille." — p. 216. 

•' Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. Le carrosse, oil il etait, rompit dans la 
marche; on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'egara pendant la nuit dans un bois; la, son 
courage ne pouvant plus suppleer k ses forces epuisees, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insup- 
portables par la fatigue, son cheval ^tant tomb^ de lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures an pied d'un 
arbre, en danger d'Stre surpris k tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le cherchaient de tous cotes," — p. 
ai8. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Mazeppa was written at Venice and Ravenna in the autumn of 1818. Mr. Giflford terms it on the 
margin of the MS., a " lively, spirited, and pleasant tale; " and M. Villemain, the eminent French critic, 
declares that sublime in its substance and finishing with a joke, it is at once the master-piece and symbol 
of Byron. An English reviewer says: — "Mazeppa is a very fine and spirited sketch of a very noble 
story, and is every way worthy of its author. The story is a well-known one; namely, that of the young 
Pole, who, being bound naked on the back of a wild horse, on account of an intrigue with the lady of a 
certain great noble of his country, was carried by his steed into the heart of the Ukraine, and being there 
picked up by some Cossacks, in a state apparently of utter hopelessness and exhaustion, recovered, and 
lived to be long after the prince and leader of the nation among whom he had arrived in this extraordi- 
nary manner. Lord Byron has represented the strange and wild incidents of this adventure, as being 
related in a half serious, half sportive way, by Mazeppa himself, to no less a person than Charles the 
Twelfth of Sweden, in some of whose last campaigns, the Cossack Hetman took a distinguished part. 
He tells it during the desolate bivouack of Charles and the few friends who fled with him towards Tur- 
key, after the bloody overthrow of Pultowa. There is not a little of beauty and gracefulness in this way 
of setting the picture; — the age of Mazeppa — the calm, practised indifference with which he now sub- 
mits to the worst of fortune's deeds — the heroic, unthinking coldness of the royal madman to whom ho 
speaks — the dreary and perilous accompaniments of the scene around the speaker and the audience,— 
all contribute to throw a very striking charm both of preparation and of contrast over the wild story of 
the Hetman. Nothing can be more beautiful, in like manner, than the account of the love — the guilty 
love — the fruits of which had been so miraculous." 



MAZEPPA. 



475 



I. 
'TWAS after dread Pultowa's day, 

When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughtered army lay. 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war, 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men. 
Had passed to the triumphant Czar, 
' And Moscow's walls were safe again. 
Until a day more dark and drear, 
And a more memorable year, 
Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name ; 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 



Such was the hazard of the die ; 

The wounded Charles was taught to fiy 

By day and night through field and flood. 

Stained with his own and subjects' blood ; 

For thousands fell that flight to aid : 

And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 

Ambition in his humbled hour, 

When truth had nought to dread from power. 

His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 

His own — and died the Russians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 

Of well sustained, but vain fatigue; 

And in the depth of forests, darkling 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ? 
They laid him by a savage tree. 
In outworn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark — 
The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid: 
And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill. 
His pangs the vassals of his will : 
All silent and subdued were they, 
As once the nations round him lay. 

III. 
A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few. 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinned it ; but this wreck was true 

And chivalrous : upon the clay 
E^ch sate him down, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed. 
For danger levels man and brute. 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's sha^e — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold; 
But first, outspent with this long course. 



The Cossack prince rubbed down his horse, 
And made for him a leafy bed, 

And smoothed his fetlocks and his mane, 
And slacked his girth, and stripped his rein, 
And joyed to see how well he fed ; 
For until now he had the dread 
His wearied courser might refuse 
To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
But he was hardy as his lord. 
And little cared for bed and board ; 
But spirited and docile too ; 
Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
Obeyed his voice, and came to call, 
And knew him in the midst of all: 
Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
That steed from sunset until dawn 
His chief would follow like a fawn. 



This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 

And laid his lance beneath his oak. 

Felt if his arms in order good 

The long day's march had well withstood — 

If still the powder filled the pan. 

And flints unloosened kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 
And next the venerable man, 
From out his haversack and can. 

Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion offered then 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courders at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there, 
To force of cheer a greater show. 
And seem above both wounds and woe, — 
And then he said — " Of all our band. 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said or more have done 
Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth, 
Since Alexander's days till now. 
As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
Mazeppa answered — " 111 betide 
The school wherein I learned to ride I " 
Quoth Charles — "Old Hetman, wherefore so. 
Since thou hast learned the art so well ? " 
Mazeppa said — " 'Twere long to tell; 
And we have many a league to go. 
With every now and then a blow, 
And ten to one at least the foe, 
Before our steeds may graze at ease. 
Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 



476 



MAZEPPA. 



And I will be the sentinel 
Of this your troop." — " But I request," 
Said Sweden's monarch, " thou wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap, 
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; 
For at this moment from my eyes 
The hope of present slumber flies." 

" Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
My seventy years of memory back : 
I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 
Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 
John Casimir, — I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age : 
A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 
And most unlike your majesty : 
He made no wars, and did not gain 
New realms to lose them back again ; 
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
He reigned in most unseemly quiet ; 
Not that he had no cares to vex, 
He loved the muses and the sex ; 
And sometimes these so froward are, 
I'hey made him wish himself at war; 
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book : 
And then he gave prodigious fgtes — 
All Warsaw gathered round his gates 
To gaze upon his splendid court. 
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port : 
He was the Polish Solomon, 
So sung his poets, all but one. 
Who, being unpensioned, made a satire, 
And boasted that he could not flatter. 
It was a court of jousts and mimes, 
Wiiere every courtier tried at rhymes; 
Even I for once produced some verses. 
And signed my odes ' Despairing Thyrsis.' 
There was a certain Palatine, 

A count of far and high descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine ; i 
And he was proud, ye may divine, 

As if from heaven he had been sent : 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 

As few could match beneath the throne ; 
And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led. 
Which almost looked like want of head, 

He thought their merits were is own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances 
Awaited but the usual chances. 



' This comparison of a " salt mine " may, per- 
haps, be permitted to a Pole, as the wealth of the 
country consists greatly in the salt mines. 



Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender, 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
'Tis said, as passports into heaven ; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these, who have deserved them most. 



" I was a goodly stripling then ; 

At seventy years I so may say, 
That there were few, or boys or men. 

Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
Could vie in vanities with me; 
For I had strength, youth, gaiety, 
A port, not like to this ye see. 
But smooth, as all is rugged now; 

For time, and care, and war, have ploughed 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should be disavowed 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
With starless skies my canopy. 
But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough. 
The memory is so quick and warm ; 
And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
She had the Asiatic eye. 

Such as our Turkish neighborhood, 

Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
Which seemed to melt to its own beam; 
All love, half languor, and half fire. 
Like saints that at the stake expire. 
And lift their raptured looks on high, 
As though it were a joy to die,2 
A brow like a midsummer lake. 

Transparent with the sun therein, 
When waves no murmur dare to make. 

And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 

I loved her then — I love her still ; 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
But still we love even in our rage. 
And haunted to our very age 
With the vain' shadow of the past. 
As is Mazeppa to the last. 



2 [MS. — *' Until it proves a joy to die."] 



MAZRPPA. 



477 



VI. 

" We met — we gazed — I saw, and sighed, 

She did not speak, and yet replied ; 

There are ten thousand tones and signs 

We hear and see, but none defines — 

Involuntary sparks of thought, 

Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, 

And form a strange intelHgenee, 

Alike mysterious and intense, 

Which link the burning chain that binds. 

Without their will, young hearts and minds ; 

Conveying, as the electric wire. 

We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 

I saw, and sighed — in silence wept. 

And still reluctant distance kept. 

Until I was made known to her. 

And we might then and there confer 

Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I longed, and was resolved to speak; 
But on my lips they died again. 

The accents tremulous and weak. 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play. 

Wherewith we while away the day; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set. 
By some strange chance, which I forget : 
I recked not if I won or lost. 

It was enough for me to be 
. So near to hear, and oh 1 to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I watched her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well I) 
Until I saw, and thus it was. 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Played on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot.i , 
Then through my brain the thought did pass 
Even as a flash of lightning there. 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair; 
And on the thouglit my words broke forth, 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was little worth, 
But yet she listened — 'tis enough — 

Who listens once will listen twice; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice. 
And one refusal no rebuff. 

VII. 

" I loved, and was beloved again — 
They tell me, Sire, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, 

I shorten all my joy or pain ; 

To vou 'twould seem absurd as vain ; 



[MS. — " but not 

For that which we had both forgot."] 



But all men are not born to reign, 
Or o'er their passions, or as you 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
I am — or rather was — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 

Them on where each would foremost 
bleed 
But could not o'er myself evince 
The iike control — But to resume: 

I oved . nd was beloved again ; 
In sooth, it is a happy doom, 

But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery expectation's dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour which doth recall 
In the long lapse from youth to age 

No other like itself — I'd give 

The Ukraine back again to live 
It o'er once more — and be a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
And had no other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gift of youth and health. — 
We met in secret — doubly sweet. 
Some say, they find it so to meet; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My life but to have called her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven; 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 

VIII. 

" For lovers there are many eyes. 

And such there were on us ; — the devil 

On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil ! — I'm loth to do him wrong, 

It might be some untoward saint. 
Who would not be at reit too long. 

But to his pious bile gave vent — 
But one fair night, some lurking spies 
Surprised and seized us both. 
The Count was something more than wroth - 
I was unarmed; but if in steel, 
All cap-A-pie from head to heel. 
What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? — 
'Twas near his castle, far away 

Brom city or from succor near, 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not think to see another. 

My moments seemed reduced to few; 
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two, 
As I resigned me to my fate, 
They led me to the castle gate : 

Theresa's doom I never knew. 
Our lot was henceforth separate. — 
An angry man, ye may opine, 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine; 
And he had reason good to be, 



478 



MAZEPPA. 



But he was most enraged lest such 
An accident should chance to touch 

Upon his future pedigree ; 

Nor less amazed, that such a blot 

His nobie 'scutcheon should have got, 

While he was highest of his line ; 
Because unto himself he seemed 
The first of men, nor less he deemed 

In others' eyes, and most in mine. 

'Sdeath ! with 2l page — perchance a king 

Had reconciled him to the thing; 

But with a stripling of a page — 

I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 

IX. 
"'Bring forth the horse!' — the horse was 
brought 

In truth he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
Who looked as though the speed of thought 
Where in his limbs; but he was wild, 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 
'Tvvas but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane. 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert -born was led: 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! — away 1 — and on we dash 1 — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 



" Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone — 
I saw not where he hurried on : 
'TwHS scarcely yet the break of day. 
And on he foamed — away 1 — away ! — 
The last of human sounds which rose, 
As I was darted from my foes. 
Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
Which on the wind came roaring after 
A moment from that rabble rout : 
With sudden wrath I wrenched my head, 
And snapped the cord, which to the mane 
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And, writhing half my form about, 
Howled back my curse ; but 'midst the tread. 
The thunder of my courser's speed. 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed; 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days: 
There is not of that castle gate, 
Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight. 
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 
Nor of its fields a blade of grass. 
Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 
Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 



I saw its turrets in a blaze, 

Their crackling battlements all cleft. 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorched and blackening roof, 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain, '. ^ 

When launched, as on the lightning's flash,. \ \ 
They bade me to destruction dash, 

Tuat one day I should come again. 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They played me then a bitter prank. 

When, with the wild horse for my guide. 
They bound me to his foaming flank: 
At length I played them one as frank — 
For time at last sets all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour. 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if imforgiven, 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 

XI. 

"Away, away, my steed and I, 

Upon the pinions of the wind, 

All human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors througli the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is chequered with the northern light : 
Town — village — none were on our track. 

But a wild plain of far extent. 
And bounded by a forest black ; 

And; save the scarce seen b ttlement 
On distant heights of some stiong hold, 
Against the Tartars built of old, 
No trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had marched o'er ; 
And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
The verdure flies the bloody sod: — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 

And a-low breeze crept moaning by — 

I could have answered with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
But, snorting still with rage and fear. 
He flew upon his far career: 
At times I almost thought, indeed. 
He must have slackened in his speed ; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might. 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and aff'right : 
I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er j 



MAZEPPA. 



47^ 



And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 

XII. 

" We neared the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side ; 

'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste. 

And strips the forest in its haste, — 

But these were few, and far between 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 

Ere strown by those autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's foliage dead. 

Discolored with a lifeless red, 

Which stands thereon like stiffened gore 

Upon the slain when battle's o'er, 

And some long winter's night hath shed 

Its frost o'er every tombless head. 

So cold and stark the raven's beak 

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 

'Twas a wild waste of underwood, 

And here and there a chestnut stood. 

The strong oak and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it were. 
Or else a ditferent lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarred with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind. 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
By night I heard them on the track. 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
Where'er we flew they followed on, 
Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
At day-break winding through the wood. 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wished for spear or sword, 
At least to die amidst the horde. 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wished the goal already won ; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewildered with the dazzling blast. 
Than through the forest-paths he past — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
All furious as a favored child 
Balked of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 



" The wood was past ; 'twas more than noon, 

But chill the air, although in June ; 

Or it might be my veins ran cold — 

Prolonged endurance tames the bold ; 

And I was then not what I seem. 

But headlong as a wintry stream. 

And wore niy feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er: 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures which beset my path, 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood 

When stirred beyond its calmer mood, 

And trodden hard upon, is like 

The rattle-snake's, in act to strike, 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 

The earth gave way, the skies rolled round, 

I seemed to sink upon the ground ; 

But erred, for I was fastly bound. 

My heart turned sick, my brain grew sore. 

And throbbed awhile, then beat no more; 

The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my e^es, 

Which saw no farther: he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 

I felt the blackness come and go, 

And strove to wake ; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below : 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
At the same time upheave and whelm. 
And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
My undulating life was as 
The fancied lights that flitting pass 
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
Fever begins upon the brain ; 
But soon it passed, with little pain. 
But a confusion worse than such: 
I own that I should deem it much, 
Dying, to feel the same again ; 
And yet I do suppose we must 
Feel far more ere we turn to dust: 
No matter ; I have bared my brow 
Full in Death's face — before — and now. 



" My thoughts came back ; where was I ? 
Cold, 

And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse 
Life reassumed its lingering hold. 
And throb by throb : till grown a pang 

Which for a moment would convulse. 

My blood reflowed, though thick and chill; 
My ear with uncouth noises rang. 

My heart began once more to thrill; 
My sight returned, though dim ; alas I 



480 



MAZEPPA. 



And thickened, as it were, with glass. 
Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
There was a gleam too of the sky, 
Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
The bright broad river's gushing tide 
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
To yon unknown and silent shore. 
The waters broke my hollow trance. 
And with a temporary strength 

My stiffened limbs were rebaptized. 
My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
And dashes off the ascending waves, 
And onward we advance! 
We reach the slippery shore at length, 

A haven I but little prized. 
For all behind was dark and drear 
And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 

XV. 
" With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. 
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top: a boundless plain 
Spreads through the shadow of the night. 

And onward, onward, onward, seems. 

Like precipices in our dreams. 
To stretch beyond the sight; 
And here and there a speck of white, 

Or scattered spot of dusky green, 
In masses broke into the light. 
As rose the moon upon my right. 

But nought distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 
The omen of a cottage gate ; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry with my woes : 

That very cheat had cheered me then! 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me through every ill, 

Of the abodes of men. 

XVI. 
"Onward we went — but slack and slow; 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low. 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But useless all to me. 
His new-born tameness nought availed — 
My limbs were bound ; my force had failed. 

Perchance, had they been free. 
With feeble effort still I tried 



To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 

But still it was in vain ; 
My limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolonged their pain : 
The dizzy race seemed almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun - 

How slow, alas ! he came ! 
Methought that mist of dawning gray 
Would never dapple into day ; 
How heavily it rolled away — 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars. 
And called the radiance from their cars,l 
And filled the earth, from his deep throne, 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 



" Up rose the sun ; the mists were curled 
Back from the solitary world 
Which lay around — behind — before; 
What booted it to traverse o'er 
Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute. 
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. 
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; 
No sign of travel — none of toil; 
The very air was mute ; 
And not an insect's shrill small horn. 
Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst. 
Panting as if his heart would burst. 
The weary brute still staggered on; 
And still we were — or seemed — alone : 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought I heard a courser neigh. 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
No, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop ; I see them come! 
In one vast squadron they advance! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
But where are they the reins to guide ? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane. 
Wide nostrils — never stretched by pain. 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 
And feet that iron never shod. 
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea. 

Came thickly thundering on. 
As if our faint approach to meet ; 
The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh, 

He answered, and then fell ; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 



[MS. — " Rose crimson, and forbad the stars 
To sparkle in their radiant cars."J 



MAZEPPA. 



481 



And reeking limbs immovable, 

His first and last career is done ! 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong: 
They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 
Gallop a moment here and there, 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
Then plunging back with sudden bound. 
Headed by one black mighty steed, 
Who seemed the patriarch of his breed. 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide; 
They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve 

aside, 
And backward to the forest fiy, 
By instinct, from a human eye. — 

They left me there to my despair. 
Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch. 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
Relieved from that unwonted weight. 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay 

The dying on the dead ! 
I little deemed another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 

" And there from morn till twilight bound, 

I felt the heavy hours toil round. 

With just enough of life to see 

My last of suns go down on me. 

In hopeless certainty of mind, 

That makes us feel at length resigned 

To that which our forboding years 

Presents the worst and last of fears 

Inevitable — even a boon. 

Nor more unkind for coming soon; 

Yet shunned and dreaded with such care. 

As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape : 
At times both wished for and implored. 
At times sought with self-pointed sword. 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no ; hape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure. 
They who have revelled beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery : 
For he who hath in turn run throu£;h 
All that was beautiful and new. 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave ; 
And, save the future, (which is viewed 
Not quite as men are base or good. 
But as their nerves may be endued,) 

With nought perhaps to grieve: — 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end. 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distempered eyes, 
Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
The tree of his new Paradise. 



To-morrow would have given him all, 
Repaid his pangs, repaired his fall ; 
To-morrow would have been the first 
Of days no more deplored or curst. 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears. 
Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
To-morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave ? 



" The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chained to the chill and stiffening steed, 
I thought to mingle there our clay; 

And my dim eyes of death had need. 

No hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky. 

And there between me and the sun 

I saw the expecting raven fly. 
Who scarce would wait till both should die, 

Ere his repast begun ; 
He flew, and perched, then flew once more. 
And each time nearer than before; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lacked the strength ; 

But the slight motion of my hand, 
And feeble scratching of the sand 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be called a voice. 

Together scared him off at length. — 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fixed my dull eyes from afar. 
And went and came with wandering beam. 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense. 
And then subsiding back to death. 
And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense. 

An icy sickness turdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that crossed my brain — 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 



" I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 
A human face look down on me ? 
And doth a roof above me close ? 
Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
And is it mortal yon bright eye. 
That watches me with gentle glance? 

I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 
A slender girl, long-haired, and tall. 
Sate watching by the cottage wall : 
The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
Even with my first return of thought; 
For ever and anon she threw 



482 



THE ISLAND. 



A prying, pitying glance on me 
With her black eyes so wild and free : 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, and was released 
From adding to the vulture's feast : 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unsealed, 
She smiled — and I essayed to speak. 

But failed — and she approached, and made 

With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength should be 
Enough to leave my accents free ; 
And then her hand on mine she laid. 
And smoothed the pillow for my head, 
And stole along on tiptoe tread. 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet! 
Even music followed her light feet ; — 

But those she called were not awake. 
And she went forth ; but, ere she passed, 
Another look on me she cast, 

Another sign she made, to say, 
That I had nought to fear, that all 
Were near, at my command or call, 

And she would not delay 
Her due return : — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 

XX. 

" She came with mother and with sire — 
What need of more ? — I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest, 
Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
They found me senseless on the plain — 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 
They brought me into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign! 



Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain. 

Sent me forth to the wilderness, 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
To pass the desert to a throne, — 

What mortal his own doom may guess ? — 

Let none despond, let none despair! 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there.i 
Comrades, good night ! " — the Hetman 
threw 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where: 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wondered not, — 

The king had been an hour asleep. 



1 [" Charles, having perceived that the day was 
lost, and that his only chance of safely was to retire 
with the utmost'precipitation, suffered himself to be 
mounted on horseback, and with the remains of his 
army fled to a place called Perewolochna, situated 
in the angle formed by the junction of the Vorskla 
and the Borysthenes. Here, accompanied by Ma- 
zeppa and a few hundreds of his followers, Charles 
swam over the latter great river, and proceeding 
over a desolate country, in danger of perishing with 
hunger, at length reached the Bog, where he was 
kindly received by the Turkish pacha. The Rus- 
sian envoy at the Sublime Porte demanded that 
Mazeppa should be delivered up to Peter, but the 
old Hetman of the Cossacks escaped this fate by 
taking a disease which hastened his death." — 
Barrow's Peter the Great, pp. 196-203..] 



THE ISLAND; 



CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 



The foundation of the following story will be found partly in Lieutenant Bligh's " Narrative of the 
Mutiny and Seizure of the Bounty, in the South Seas, in 1789; " and partly in " Mariner's Account of 
the Tonga Islands." 

Genoa, 1823. 



THE ISLAND. 



483 



INTRODUCTION. 

On the 28th of April, 1789, the Bounty was on its way from Otaheite with a cargo of bread fruit trees, 
which the English Government wished to naturalize in the West Indies, when the larger part of the crew, 
headed by Christian the mate, seized the commander, Captain Bligh, and launched him, together with 
eighteen others who remained faithful to their duty, in an open boat upon the wide ocean. The remainder, 
twenty-eight in number, of whom four were detained against their will, set sail for Toobonai, one of the 
Friendly Islands; thence they returned to Otaheite, where Christian landed the majority of the mutineers, 
while himself and eight of his comrades went back to Toobonai, with the intention of settling there. The 
natives regarding them as intruders. Christian and his company again put to sea, and established them- 
selves, in 1790, upon Pitcairn's Island, which was then uninhabited. Captain Bligh, with twelve of his 
men, got safe to England, and the Pandora was despatched to Otaheite, to apprehend the mutineers. 
Fourteen were captured, and of these four were drowned on the voyage, and three executed in England. 
It was in anticipation of the search for them at Otaheite that Christian and his party sought a securer 
home, and they took the further precaution to burn the ship as soon as they were settled upon Pitcairn's 
Island. No one guessed what had become of them till the captain of an American vessel chanced, in 
1809, to stop at their place of retreat, and learnt their curious story. 

They had carried with them from Otaheite six Tahitian men and twelve women. Quarrels broke out, 
a war of races commenced, and ultimately the nine Englishmen were killed or died, with the exception 
of one Smith, who assumed the name of Adams, and was the patriarch of the colony, which amounted 
in all to thirty-five. Adams, touched by the tragedies he had witnessed, had trained up the half-caste 
children of himself and his countrymen in the way they should go, and they presented the singular spec- 
tacle of a moral, a united, and a happy family sprung from a colony of ferocious mutineers. 

Such was the romance upon which the poet founded the tale of " The Island," though he h«s inter- 
woven with the central narrative a marvellous incident from Mariner, which relates to an entirely differ- 
ent adventure. 

The Island was written at Genoa, early in 1823, and published in June of that year. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



The morr.ing watch was come ; the vessel lay 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way; 
The cloven billow flashed from off her prow 
In furrows formed by that majestic plough ; 
The waters with their world were all before ; 
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. 
The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
The sail resumed its lately shadowed white, 
And the wind fluttered with a freshening 

flight ; 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun. 
But ere he break — a deed is to be done. 

II. 

The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
Secure in -those by whom the watch was kept : 



His dreams were of Old England's welcome 

shore, 
Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er ; 
His name was added to the glorious roll 
Of those who search the storm-surrounded 

Pole. 
The worst was over, and the rest seemed sure.i 
And why should not his slumber be secure ? 
Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet. 
And wilder hands would hold the vessel's 

sheet : 
Young hearts, which languish for some sunny 

isle, 
Where summer years and summer women 

smile ; 



1 [" A few hours before, my situation had been 
peculiarly flattering. I had a ship in the most per- 
fect order, stored with every necessary, both for 
health and service; the object of the voyage was 
attained, and two thirds of it now completed. The 
remaining part had every prospect of success." — 



484 



THE ISLAND. 



Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
Had found no native home, or found it 

changed, 
And, lialf uncivilized, preferred the cave 
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave — 
The gushing fruits that nature gave unfilled ; 
The wood without a path but where they 

willed ; 
Tlie field o'er which promiscuous Plenty 

poured 
Her hoi n ; the equal land without a lord ; 
The wish — which ages have not yet svibdued 
In man — to have no master save his mood ; i 
The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold. 
The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 
The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 
The general garden, where all steps may roam. 
Where Nature owns a nation as her child. 
Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild ; 
Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they 

know 
Their unexploring navy, the canoe ; 
Their sport, the dashing breakers and the 

chase ; 
Their strangest sight, an European face : — 
Such was the country which these strangers 

yearned 
To see again ; a sight they dearly earned. 



Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 

Awake ! Awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 

Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and 

fear. 
Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy 

breast ; 
The hands, which trembled at thy voice arrest ; 
Dragged o'er the deck, no more at thy com- 
mand 
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 
That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes 
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice : 
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, 
Unless he drain the wme of passion — rage. 



In vain, not silenced by the eye of death. 
Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced 

breath : — 
They come not; they are few, and, overawed, 
Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud. 



1 [" The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, 
and cheerful in manners and conversation, pos- 
sessed of great sensibility and have sufficient deli- 
cacy to make them be admired and beloved. 
The chiefs were so much attached to our people, 
that they rather encouraged their stay among them 
than otherwise, and even made them promises of 
large possessions. Under these and many other 



In vain thou dost demand the cause: a curse 
Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 
Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 
Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 
The levelled muskets circle round thy breast 
In hands as steeled to do the deadly rest. 
Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming — 

" Fire 1 " 
But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 
Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
Restrained them longer than their broken law ; 
They would not dip their souls at once in 

blood. 
But left thee to the mercies of the fiood.2 

V. 
" Hoist out the boat ! " was now the leader's 

cry; 
And who dare answer " No ! " to Mutiny, 
In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 
The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power ? 
The boat is lowered with all the haste of hate, 
With its slight plank between thee and thy fate ; 
Her only cargo such a scant supply 
As promises the death their hands deny; 
And just enough of water and of bread 
To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 
Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and 

twine. 
But treasures all to hermits of the brine. 
Were added after, to the earnest prayer 



concomitant circumstances, it ought hardly to be 
the subject of surprise that a set of sailors, most of 
them void of connections, should be led away, 
where they had the power of fixing themselves, in 
the midst of plenty, in one of the finest islands in 
the world, where there was no necessity to labor, 
and where the allurements of dissipation are be- 
yond any conception that can be formed of it." — 
Bligh. -\ 

- ["Just before sunrise, while I was yet asleep, 
Mr. Christian, with the master-at-arms, gunner's 
mate, and Thomas Burkitt, seaman, came into my 
cabin, and, seizing me, tied my hands with a cord 
behind my back, threatening me with instant death, 
if I spoke or made the least noise. I nevertheless 
called out as loud as I could, in hopes of assistance; 
but the officers not of their party were already se- 
cured by sentinels at their doors. At my own cabin 
door were three men, besides the four within: all 
except Christian had muskets and bayonets; he had 
only a cutlass. I was dragged out of bed, and 
forced on deck in my shirt. On demanding the 
reason of such violence, the only answer was abuse 
for not holding my tongue. The boatswain was 
then ordered to hoist out the launch, accompanied 
by a threat, if he did not do it instantly, to take 
care of himself. The boat being hoisted oiit, Mr. 
Heyward and Mr. Hallett, two of the midshipmen, 
and Mr. Samuel, the clerk, were ordered into it. 
I demanded the intention of giving this order, and 
endeavored to persuade the people near me not to 
persist in such acts of violence ; but it was to no 
effect; for the constant answer was, 'Hold your 
tongue, or you are dead this moment ! '" — Bligh. \ 



THE ISLAND. 



.485 



Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air; 
And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole — 
The feeling compass — Navigation's soul.i- 

VI. 
And now the self-elected chief finds time 
To stun the first sensation of his crime, 
And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! the 

bowl ! " 2 
Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 
" Brandy for heroes 1 " 3 Burke could once 

exclaim — 
No doubt a liquid path to epic fame ; 
And such the new-born heroes found it here, 
And drained the draught with an applauding 

cheer. 
" Huzza ! for Otaheite ! " was the cry. 
How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny ! 
The gentle island, and the genial soil, 
The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil. 
The courteous manners but from nature 

caught. 
The wealth unhoarded, and the love un- 

bought ; 
Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys, 

driven 
Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 
And now, even now prepared with others' woes 
To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose ? 
Alas I such is our nature ! all but aim 
At the same end by pathways not the same ; 
Our means, our birth, our nation, and our 

name. 
Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame. 
Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 
Than aught we know beyond our little day. 
Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's 

din : 
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 

VII. 
The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew: 
But some remained reluctant on the deck 



^ [" The boatswain and those seamen who were 
to be put into the boat were allowed to collect 
twine, canvas, lines, sails, cordage, an eight-and- 
twenty-gallon cask of water; and Mr. Samuel got 
one hundred and fifty pounds of bread, with a small 
quantity of rum and wine: also a quadrant and 
compass." — Bligh.] 

2 [The mutineers having thus forced those of the 
seamen \vhoni they wished to get rid of into the 
boat, Christian directed a dram to be served to each 
of his crew." — Bligh.'] 

^ [It was Dr. Johnson who thus gave honor to 
Cognac. " He was persuaded," says Boswell, " to 
take one glass of claret. He shook his head, and 
said, ' Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for 
boys ; port for men ; but he who aspires to be a 
hero (smiling) must drink brandy.' "] 



Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
And viewed their captain's fate with piteous 

eyes ; 
While others scoffed his augured miseries, 
Sneered at the prospect of his pigmy sail, 
And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 
The sea-born sailor of his shell canoe, 
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea. 
Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 
He, when the lightning-winged tornadoes 

sweep 
The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the 

wind. 

VIII. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear, 
Which hailed her master in the mutineer — 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
§howed the vain pity which but irritates ; 
Watched his late chieftain with exploring eye,' 
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched 

mouth. 
Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter 

drouth. 
But soon observed, this guardian vvas with- 
drawn. 
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn.* 
Then forward stepped the bold and froward 

boy 
His chief had cherished only to destroy. 
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath. 
Exclaimed, " Depart at once ! delay is 

death ! " 
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
In that last moment could a word recall 
Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, 
And what he hid from many he showed to 

one : 
When Bligh in stern reproach demanded 

where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? 
His feverish lips thus broke their gioomy 

spell, 
" 'Tis that 1 'tis that ! I am in hell ! in hell ! " 5 



* [" Isaac Martin, I saw, had an inclination to 
assist me; and as he fed me with shaddock, my lips 
being quite parched, we explained each other's sen- 
timents by looks. But this was observed, and he 
was removed. He t^en got into the boat, but was 
compelled to return." — Bligh?^ 

^ ["Christian then said, 'Come, Captain Bligh, 
your officers and men are now in the boat: and you 
must go with tliem: if you attempt to make the 
least resistance, you will instantly be put to death, 
and, without further ceremony, I was forced over 
the side by a tribe of armed ruffians, where they 
untied my hands. Being in the boat we were 
veered astern by a rope. A few pieces of pork 



486 



THE ISLAND. 



No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
His chief, commits him to his fragile ark ; 
These the sole accents from his tongue that 

fell, 
But volumes lurked below his fierce farewell. 

IX. 

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 
The breeze now sank, now whispered from 

his cave ; 
As on the ^olian harp, his fitful wings 
Now swelled, now fluttered o'er his ocean 

strings. 
With slow, despairing oar, the abandoned 

skiff 
Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen 

cliff, 
Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main. 
That boat and ship shall never meet again ! 
But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief, 
Their constant peril, and their scant relief; 
Their days of danger, and their nights of 

pain ; 
Their manly courage even when deemed in 

vain ; 
The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 
The ills that lessened still their little store, 
And starved even Hunger till he wrung no 

more ; 
The varying frowns and favors of the deep, 
That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 
With crazy oar and shattered strength along 
The tide that yields reluctant to the strong ; 
The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that 

burst 
Above their naked bones, and feels delight 
In the cold drenching of the stormy night. 
And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings 
A drop to moisten life's all-gasping springs ; 
The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
More hospitable shelter from the main ; 
The ghastly spectres which were doomed at 

last 
To tell as true a tale of dangers past, 



were thrown to us, also the four cutlasses. After 
having been kept some time to make sport for these 
unfeeling wretches, and having undergone much 
ridicule, we were at length cast adrift in the open 
ocean. Eighteen persons were with me in the boat. 
When we were sent away, 'Huzza for Otaheite!' 
was frequently heard among the mutineers. Chris- 
tian, the chief of them, was of a respectable family 
in the north of England. While they were forcing 
me out of the ship, I asked him whether this was a 
proper return for the many instances he had expe- 
rienced of my friendship? He appeared disturbed 
at the question, and answered, with much emotion, 



As ever the dark annals of the deep 
Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep, j 

X. 

We leave them to their fate, but not un- 
known 
Nor unredressed. Revenge may have her 

own : 
Roused discipline aloud proclaims their 

cause. 
And injured navies urge their broken laws. 
Pursue we on his track the mutineer. 
Whom distant vengeance had not taught to 

fear. 
Wide o'er the wave — away ! away ! away ! 
Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome 

bay; 
Once more the happy shores without a law 
Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw ; 
Nature, and Nature's goddess — woman ^ 

woos 
To lands where, save their conscience, none 

accuse ; 
Where all partake the earth without dispute, 
And bread itself is gathered as a fruit ; i 
Where none contest the fields, the woods, the 

streams : — 
The goldless age, where gold disturbs no 

dreams. 
Inhabits or inhabited the shore. 
Till Europe taught them better than before : 
Bestowed her customs, and amended theirs, 
But left her vices also to their heirs. 
Away with this ! behold them as they were. 
Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 
" Huzza! for Otaheite I " was the cry, 
As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
The breeze springs up; the lately flapping 

sail 
Extends its arch before the growing gale ; 
In swifter ripples stream aside the seas, 
Which her bold bow flings off with dashing 

ease. 
Thus Argo2 ploughed the Euxine's virgin 

foam; 
But those she wafted still looked back to 

home — 
These spurn their country with their rebel 

bark. 
And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 
And yet they seem to nestle with the dove, 
And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 

'That — Captain Bligh — that is the thing — I am 
in hell — I am in hell ! ' " — Bligh.'] 

1 The now celebrated bread-fruit, to transplant 
which Captain Bligh's expedition was undertaken. 

- [The vessel in which Jason embarked in quest 
of the golden fleece.] 



THE ISLAND. 



487 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



I. 

How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai.i 
When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! 
Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, 
And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels 

said : 
The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 
Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 
We'll cull the flowers that grow above the 

dead. 
For these most bloom where rests the warrior's 

head; 
And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 
The sweet moon glancing through the tooa 

tree. 
The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 
Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 
Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 
Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main. 
Which spurn in columns back the baffled 

spray. 
How beautiful are these ! how happy they, 
Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, 
Steal to look down where nought but ocean 

strives ! 
Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon. 
And smoothes his ruffled mane beneath the 

moon. 

II. 
Yes — from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers. 
Then feast like spirits in their promised bow- 
ers, 
Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf. 
Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, 
And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 
Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil, 
And plait our garlands gathered from the 

grave. 
And wear the wreaths that sprung from out 

the brave. 
But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, 
The sound of mats are heard along our track ; 
Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 
In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 
And we too will be there ; we too recall 
The memory bright with many a festival. 
Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 
For the first time were wafted in canoes. 
Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 



1 The first three sections are taken from an 
actual song of the Tonga Islanders, of which a 
prose translation is given in " Mariner's Account 
of the Tonga Islands." Toobonai is not however 
one of them; but was one of those where Christian 
and the mutineers took refuge. I have altered and 
added, but have retained as much as possible of the 
original. 



Alas I for them our fields are rank with weeds : 
Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown, 
Ot wandering with the moon and love alone. 
But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 
The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field : 
Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 
But feast to-night ! to-morrow we dejiart. 
Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high ! 
Drain every drop! — to-morrow we may die. 
In summer garments be our limbs arrayed ; 
Around our waists the tappa's white displayed ; 
Thick .wreaths shall form our coronal, like 

spring's, 
And round our necks shall glance the hooni 

strings ; 
So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 
Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

III. 
But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile; 
Ah, pause 1 nor yet put out the social smile. 
To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 
But not to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo. 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 
Bows to your beauties, softened, but intense, ' 
Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep. 
Which fling their fragrance far athwart the 

deep ! — 
We too will see Licoo ; but — oh ! my heart !— . 
What do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 

IV. 

Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
True, they had vices — such are Nature's 

growth — 
But only the barbarian's — we have both : 
The sordor of civilization, mixed 
With all the savage which man's fall hath 

fixed. 
Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign, 
The prayers of Abel linked to deeds of Cain ? 
Who such would see may from his lattice view 
The Old World more' degraded than the 

New, — 
Now new no more, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave. 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 

V. 
Such was this ditty of Tradidon's days, 
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys ; 
In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine 



488 



THE ISLAND. 



Which leaves no record to the sceptic eye, 
But yields young history all to harmony; 
A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre 
In hand, to leach him to surpass his sire. 
For one long-cherished ballad's simple stave, 
Rung from the rock, or mingled with the 

wave, 
Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide. 
Hath greater power o'er each true heart and 

ear. 
Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear ; 
Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
For the sages' labors or the student's dream ; 
Attracts, when History's volumes are a toil, — 
The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 
Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is' of the 

rude — 
But such inspired the Norseman's solitude. 
Who came and conquered; such, wherever 

rise, 
Lands which no foes destroy or civilize. 
Exist : and what can our accomplished art 
Of verse do more than reach the awakened 

heart ? 

VI. 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 

Broke the luxurious silence ot the skies, 

The sweet siesta of a summer day, 

The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 

When every flower was bloom, and air was 

balm, 
And the first breath began to stir the palm, 
The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 
All gently to refresh the thirsty cave, 
Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy, 
Who taught her passion's desolating joy, 
Too powerful over every heart, but most 
O'er those who know not how it may be lost; 
O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire. 
Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre. 
With such devotion to their ecstasy, 
That life knows no such rapture as to die : 
And die they do; for earthly life has nought 
Matched with that burst of nature, even in 

thought. 
And all our dreams of better life above 
But close in one eternal gush of love. 



There sat the gentle savage of the wild. 

In growth a woman, though in years a child. 

As childhood dates within our colder clime. 

Where nought is ripened rapidly save crime; 

The infant of an infant world, as pure 

From nature — lovely, warm, and premature; 

Dusky like night, but night with all her stars; 

Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 

With eyes that were a language and a spell, 

A form like Aphrodite's in her shell. 

With all her loves around her on the deep, 



' [George Stewart. " He was," says Bligh, " a 
young man of creditable parents in the Orkneys; 
at which place, on the return of the Resolution 
from the South Seas, in 1780, we received so many 
civilities, that, on that account only, I should 
gladly have taken him with me; but, independent 
of this recommendation, he was a seaman, and had 
always borne a good character." 



Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep; 
Yet full of life — for through her tropic cheek 
The blush would make its way, and all but 

speak ; 
The sun-born blood suffused her neck, and 

threw 
O'er her clear nut-brown skin a lucid hue. 
Like coral reddening through the darkened 

wave. 
Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 
Such was this daughter of the southern seas, 
Herself a billow in her energies, 
To bear the bark of others' haj piness, 
Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less : 
Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 
No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 
Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, 

whose 
Sad proof reduces all things from their hues: 
She feared no ill, because she knew it not, 
Or what she knew was soon — too soon — 

forgot : 
Her smiles and tears had passed, as light 

winds pass 
O'er lakes to ruffle, not destroy, their glass. 
Whose depths unsearched, and fountains from 

the hill. 
Restore their surface, in itself so still. 
Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave. 
Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, 
And crush the hving waters to a mass. 
The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 
And nmst their fate be hers ? The eternal 

change 
But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 
And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, 
To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 

VIII. 
And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child l 
Of isles more known to man, but scarce less 

wild; 
The fair-haired offspring of the Hebrides, 
Where roars the Pentland with its whirling 

seas ; 
Rocked in his cradle by the roaring wind. 
The tempest-born in body and in mind. 
His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam. 
Had from that moment deemed the deep his 

home. 
The giant comrade of his pensive moods, 
The sharer of his craggy solitudes. 
The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 
His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 



THE ISLAND. 



489 



A careless thing, who placed his choice in 

chance, 
Nursed by the legends of his land's romance ; 
Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, 
Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 
Placed in the Arab's clime, he would have been 
As bold a rover as the sands have seen. 
And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 
As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ; i 
Fixed upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique ; 
On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek; 
Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 
Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 
For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 
If reared to such, can find no further prey 
Beyond itself, and must retrace its way 2 
Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 
Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst 

shame, 
A humbler state and discipline of heart. 
Had formed his glorious namesake's counter- 
part ; 3 
But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
How small their theatre without a throne ! 



Thou smilest ; — these comparisons seem high 
To those who scan all things with dazzled eye ; 
Linked with the unkown name of one whose 

doom 
Has nought to do with glory or with Rome, 
With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby ; — 
Thou smilest ? — Smile; 'tis, better thus than 

sigh ; 
Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 
A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 
A patriot hero or despotic chief, 
To form a nation's glory or its grief. 
Born under auspices which make us more 
Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 

1 The " ship of the desert " is the oriental figure 
for the camel or dromedary ; and they deserve the 
metaphor well, — the former for his endurance, 
the latter for his swiftness. 

2 " Lucullus, when frugality could charm, 

Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm." 

Pope. 

3 The consul Nero, who made the unequalled 
march which deceived Hannibal, and defeated 
Asdrubal; thereby accomplishing an achievement 
almost unrivalled in military annals. The first 
intelligence of his return, to Hannibal, was the 
sight of Asdrubal's head, thrown into his camp. 
When Hannibal saw this, he exclaimed with a 
sigh, that " Rome would now be the mistress of 
the world." And yet to this victory of Nero's 
it might be owing that his imperial namesake 
reigned at all. But the infamy of the one has 
eclipsed the glory of the other. When the name of 
" Nero" is heard, who thinks of the consul? — But 
such are human things. 



A blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 

The fair-haired Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 

The husband of the bride of Toboonai. 



By Neuha's side he sate, and watched the 

waters, — 
Neuha, the sun-flower of the island daughters. 
High-born, (a birth at which the herald smiles. 
Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 
Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 
The naked knights of savage chivalry. 
Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore ; 
And thine — I've seen — Achilles ! do no more. 
She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came. 
In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 
Topped with tall trees, which, loftier than the 

palm. 
Seemed rooted in the deep atnidst its calm : 
But when the winds awakened, shot forth 

wings 
Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 
And swayed the waves, like cities of the sea, 
Making the very billows look less free ; — 
She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow. 
Shot through the surf, like reindeer through 

the snow. 
Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge. 
Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge. 
And gazed and wondered at the giant hulk. 
Which heaved from wave to wave its tramp- 
ling bulk. 
The anchor dropped ; it lay along the deep, 
Like a huge lion in the sun asleep. 
While round it swarmed the proas' flitting 

chain, 
Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 

XI. 

The white man landed ! — need the rest be 

told? 
The New World stretched its dusk hand to 

the Old. 
Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
Of vv onder warmed to better sympathy. 
Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, 
And kinder still their daughters' gentler fires. 
Their union grew : the children of the storm 
Found beauty linked with many a dusky form ; 
While these in turn admired the paler glow, 
Which seemed so white in climes that knew 

no snow. 
The chase, the race, the liberty to roam. 
The soil where every cottage showed a home ; 
The sea -spread net, the lightly -launched 

canoe. 
Which stemmed the studded archipelago. 
O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 
The healthy slumber, earned by sportive' toils ; 
The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods, 
Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 



490 



THE ISLAND. 



While eagles scarce build higher than the 

crest 
Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her 

breast ; 
The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root. 
Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and 

fruit ; 
The bread-tree, which, without the plough- 
share, yields 
The unreaped harvest of unfurrowed fields. 
And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
Without a furnace in unpurchased groves. 
And flings off famine from its fertile breast, 
A priceless market for the gathering guest ; — 
These, with the luxuries of seas and woods. 
The airy joys of social solitudes. 
Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 
Of those who were more happy, if less wise, 
Did more than Europe's discipline had done, 
And civilized Civilization's son! 

XII. 

Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 
Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair: 
Both children of the isles, though distant far; 
Both born beneath a sea-presiding star ; 
Both nourished amidst nature's native scenes. 
Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 
Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 
Wiiich still reverts to what first caught the eye. 
He who first met the Highland's swelling blue 
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue. 
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face. 
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
Long have I roamed through lands which are 

not mine, 
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 
Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep: 
But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall ; 
The infant rapture still survived the boy. 
And Loch-na-gar with Ida looked o'er Troy.l 
Mixed Celtic memories with the Phrygian 

mount, 
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 
Forgive me, Homer's universal shade ! 
Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy strayed ; 
The north and nature taught me to adore 
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved be- 
fore. 

XIII. 

The love which maketh all things fond and 

fair, 
The youth which makes one rainbow of the air. 
The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 
The pause in which he ceases to destroy. 



1 When very young, about eight years of age, 
after an attack of the scarlet fever at Aberdeen, I 
was removed by medical advice into the High- 
lands. Here I passed occasionally some summers. 



The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 
United the half savage and the whole, 
The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 
No more the thundering memory of the fight 
Wrapped his weaned bosom in its dark delight ; 
No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
Disturbed him like the eagle in her nest, 
Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 
Darts for a victim over all the sky ; 
His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 
At once Elysian and effeminate. 
Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn ; — 
These wither when for aught save blood they 

burn ; 
Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid. 
Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 
Had Caesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
Rome had been free, the world had not been 

his; 
And what have Caesar's deeds and Caesar's 

fame 
Done for the earth ? We feel them in our 

shame 
The gory sanction of his glory stains 
The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 
Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 
Roused millions do what single Brutus did — 
Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's 

song 
From the tall bough where they have .perched 

so long, — 
Still are we hawked at by such mousing owls, 
And take for falcons those ignoble fowls. 
When but a word of freedom would dispel 
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

XIV. 

Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife, 
With no distracting world to call her off 
From love ; with no society to scoff 
At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 
Of coxcombry in admiration loud. 
Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
Her duty, and her glory, and her joy : 
With faith and feelings naked as her form. 
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm, 
Changing its hues with bright variety. 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
Howe'er its arch may swell, its colors move, 
The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 



and from this period I date my love of mountainous 
countries. I can never forget the effect, a few 
years afterwards, in England, of the only thing I 
had long seen, even in miniature, of a mountain, 
in the Malvern Hills. After I returned to Chel- 
tenham, I used to watch them every afternoon, at 
sunset, with a sensation, which I cannot describe. 
This was boyish enough, but I was then only thir- 
teen years of age, and it was in the holidays. 



THE ISLAND. 



491 



Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, 
They passed the tropic's red meridian o'er; 
Nor long the hours — they never paused o'er 

time, 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, 
Which deals the daily pittance of our span. 
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
What deemed they of the future or the past ? 
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 
Theirhour-glasswasthe sea-sand, and the tide, 
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments 

glide; 
THeir clock the sun, in his unbounded tower; 
They reckoned not, whose day was but an 

hour; 
The nightingale, their only vesper-bell, 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ; i 
The broad sun set, but not with lingering 

sweep, 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep ; 
But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
The world for ever, earth of light bereft, 
Plunged with red forehead down along the 

wave. 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
Then rose they, looking first along the skies, 
And then for light into each other's eyes. 
Wondering thatsummershowed so brief a sun, 
And asking if indeed the day were done. 

XVI. 

And let not this seem strange: the devotee 
Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy; 
Around him days and worlds are heedless 

driven, 
His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 
Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod, 
Alike uplifted gloriously to God ; 
Or linked to all we know of heaven below, 
The other better self, whose joy or woe 
Is more than ours ; the all-absorbing flame 
Which, kindled by another, grows the same, 
Wrapt in one blaze ; the pure, yet fiineral pile, 
Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and 

smile. 
How often we forget all time, when lone, 
Admiring Nature's universal throne. 
Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 
Reply of hers to our intelligence! 
Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the 

waves 
Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 
Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 
No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their 

spheres, 
Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 



^ The now well-known story of the loves of the 
nightingale and rose need not be more than alluded 
to, being sufficiently familiar to the Western as to 
the Eastern reader. 



Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. 
Strip off this fond and false identity ! — 
Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky ? 
And who, though gazing lower, ever thought. 
In the young moments ere the. heart is taught 
Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own ? 
All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

XVII. 

Neuha arose, and Torquil: twilight's hour 
Came sad and softly to their rocky bower. 
Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars. 
Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm, 
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the 

palm ; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
Lovely as Love — the spirit! — when serene. 
The Ocean 'scarce spoke louder with his 

swell. 
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the 

shell,2 
As, far divided from his parent deep. 
The sea-born infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave: 



2 If the reader will apply to his ear the seashell 
on his chimney-piece, he will be aware of what is 
alluded to. If the text should appear obscure, he 
will find in '* Gebir " the same idea better expressed 
in two lines. The poem I never read, but have 
heard the lines quoted by a more recondite reader 
— who seems to be of a different opinion from the 
editor of the Quarterly Review, who qualified it, in 
his answer to the Critical Reviewer of his Juvenal, 
as trash of the worst and most insane description. 
It is to Mr. Landor, the author of " Gebir," so 
qualified, and of some Latin poems, which vie with 
Martial or Catullus in obscenity, that the immacu- 
late Mr. Southey addresses his declamation against 
impurity! 

[Mr. Landor's lines above alluded to are — 
" For I have often seen her with both hands 
Shake a dry crocodile of equal height, 
And listen to the shells within the scales, 
And fancy there was life, and yet apply 
The jagged jaws wide open to the ear." 
In the " Excursion " of Wordsworth occurs the 
following exquisite passage: — 

" I have seen 

A curious child, applying to his ear 

The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell. 

To which, in silence hushed, his very soul. 

Listened intensely, and his countenance soon 

Brightened with joy; for murmuring from within 

Were heard sonorous cadences! whertby, 

To his belief, the monitor expressed 

Mysterious union with its native sea. 

Even such a shell the universe itself 

Is to the ear of faith; and doth impart 

Authentic tidings of invisible things: 

Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; 

And central peace subsisting at the heart 

Of endless agitation."] 



492 



THE ISL4J^D. 



The woods drooped darkly, as inclined to 

rest, 
The tropic bird wheeled rockward to his 

nest, 
And the blue sky spread round them like a 

lake 
Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIII, 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a 

voice ! 
Not such as would have been a lover's choice, 
In such an hour, to break the air so still ; 
No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill. 
Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 
Those best and earliest lyres of harmony, 
With Echo for their chorus ; nor the alarm 
Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm ; 
Nor the soliloquy of the hermit ©wl. 
Exhaling all his solitary soul, 
The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, 
Who peals his dreary paean o'er the night ; — 
But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 
And then a pause, and then a hoarse " Hillo ! 
Torquil ! my bov ! what cheer ? Ho ! brother, 

ho!" 
"Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with 

his eye 
The sound. "Here's one," was all the brief 

reply. 

XIX. 
But here the herald of the self-same mouth. 
Came breathing o'er the aromatic south. 
Not like a " bed of violets " on the gale. 
But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, 
Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had 

blown 
Its gentle odors over either zone. 
And, puffed where'er winds rise or waters 

roll, 
Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the 

Pole, 
Opposed its vapor as the lightning flashed, 
And reeked, 'midst mountain-billows una- 
bashed. 
To ^olus a constant sacrifice. 
Through every change of all the varying skies. 
And what was he who bore it ? — I may err. 
But deem him sailor or philospher.i 
Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 
Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest, 
Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 
His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; 



Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand. 
Though not less loved, in Wapping or the 

Strand ; 
Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe. 
When tipped with amber, mellow, rich, and 

ripe; 
Like other charmers, wooing the caress 
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 
Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar 1 2 

XX. 
Through the approaching darkness of the 

wood 
A human figure broke the solitude, 
Fantastically, it may be, arrayed, 
A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
Such as appears to rise out from the deep 
When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, 
And the rough saturnalia of the tar 
Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrowed 

car; 3 
And, pleased, the god of ocean sees his name 
Revive once more, though but in mimic 

game 
Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 
Still the old god deliglits, from out the main, 
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim. 
His constant pipe, which never yet burned 

dim. 
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
Not over-tightly bound, nor nicely spread ; 
And, 'stead of trousers (ah ! too early torn ! 
For even the mildest woods will have their 

thorn) 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
Now served for inexpressibles and hat; 



1 Hobbes, the father of Locke's and other phil- 
osophy, was an inveterate smoker, — even to pipes 
beyond computation. 

[Soon after dinner Mr. Hobbes retired to his 
study, and had his candle, with ten or twelve pipes 
of tobacco laid by him; then, shutting the door, he 
fell to smoking, thinking, and writing for several 
hours.] 



- [We talked of change of manners (1773)- Dr. 
Johnson observed, that our drinking less than our 
ancestors was owing to the change from ale to wine. 
" I remember," said he, " when all the decent peo- 
ple in Litchfield got drunk every night, and were 
not the worse thought of. Smoking has gone out. 
To be sure, it is a shocking thing, blowing smoke 
out of our mouths into other people's mouths, eyes, 
and noses, and having the same thing done to us. 
Yet I cannot account, why a thing which requires 
so little exertion, and yet preserves the mind from 
total vacuity, should have gone out." — Boswell. 
As an item in the history of manners, it may be 
observed^ that drinking to excess has diminished 
greatly m the memory even of those who can 
remember forty or fiftjr years. The taste for smok- 
ing, however, has revived, probably from the mil- 
itary habits of Europe during the French wars; 
but, instead of the sober sedentary pipe the ambu- 
latory scgar is now chiefly used. — Croker, 1830.] 

^ This rough but jovial ceremony, used in cross- 
ing the line, has been so often and so well described, 
that it need not be more than alluded to. 



THE ISLAND. 



49.3 



His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face, 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His arms were aU his own, our Europe's 

growth, 
Which two worlds bless for civilizing both ; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders 

broad. 
And somewhat stooped by his marine abode, 
But brawny as the boar's ; and hung "ueneath, 
His cutlass drooped, unconscious of a sheath. 
Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
Linked to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff, 
Thoug^h one missed fire, the other would go 

off) : 
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust. 
Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
Surveyed him in his garb heteroclite. 

XXI. 
" What cheer, Ben Bunting ? " cried (when in 

full view 
Our new acquaintance) Torquil. " Aught of 

new ? " 
" Ey, ey!" quoth Ben, "not new, but news 

enow ; 
A strange sail in the offing." — "Sail! and 

hov/ ? 
What ! could you make her out ? It cannot 

be; 
I've seen no rag of canvas on the sea." 
" Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the 

bay, 
But from the bluff-head, where I watched to- 
day, 
I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 



Was light and baffling." —When the sun de- 
clined 
Where lay she ? had she anchored ? " — " No, 

but still 
She bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 
" Her flag ? " — "I had no glass : but fore and 

aft. 
Egad 1 she seemed a wicked-looking craft." 
"Armed?" — "I expect so; — sent on the 

look-out : 
'Tis time, belike, to put our helm about. " 
"About? — Whate'er may have us now in 

chase. 
We'll make no running fight, for that were 

base ; 
We will die at our quarters, like true men. " 
" Ey, ey ! for that 'tis all the same to Ben. " 
" Does Christian know this ? " — " Ay ; he has 

piped all hands 
To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear. 
And scaled them. You are wanted." — " That's 

but lair ; 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To^leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
My Neuha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 
Not me alone, but one so sweet and true ? 
But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha ! now 
Unman me not ; the hour will not allow 
A tear; I am thine whatever intervenes ! " 
" Right," quoth Ben, " that will do for the 

marines."! 



1 " That will do for the marines, but the sailors 
won't believe it," is an old saying; and one of the 
few fragments of former jealousies which still sur- 
vive (in jest only) between these gallant services. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



The fight was o'er; the flashing through the 

gloom 
Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 
Had ceased ; and sulphury vapors upward 

driven 
Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 
The rattling roar which rung in every volley 
Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 
No more they shrieked their horror, boom 

for boom ; 
The strife was done, the vanquished had their 

doom ; 
The mutineers were crushed, dispersed, or 

ta'en, 
Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 



Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er 
The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 
No further home was theirs, itseemed, on earth, 
Once renegades to thatwhich gave them birth ; 
Tracked like wild beasts, like them they sought 

the wild. 
As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den. 
And still more vainly men escape from men. 



Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 
Far over ocean in his fiercest moods, 
When scaling his enormous crag the wave 
Is hurled down headlong, like the foremost 
brave, 



494 



THE ISLAND. 



And falls back on the foaming crowd behind, 
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind, 
Bnt now at rest, a Httle remnant drew 
Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few ; 
But still their weapons in their hands, and still 
With something of the pride of former will, 
As men not all unused to meditate, 
And strive much more than wonder at theif 

fate. 
Their present lot was what they had foreseen, 
And dared as what was likely to have been ; 
Yet still the lingering hope, which deemed 

their lot 
Not pardoned, but unsought for or forgot, 
Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 
Might still be missed amidst the world of waves. 
Had weaned their thoughts in part from what 

they saw 
And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. 
Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, 
No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 
Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown 
Back on themselves, — their sins remained 

alone. 
Proscribed even in their second country, they 
Were lost ; in vain the world before them lay ; 
All outlets seemed secured. Their new allies 
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 
But what availed the club and spear, and arm 
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm. 
The magic of the thunder, which destroyed 
The warrior ere his strength could be em- 
ployed ? 
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 
No less of human bravery than the brave ! i 
Their own. scant numbers acted all the few 
Against the many oft will dare and do; 
But though the choice seems native to die free, 
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae, 
Till noil), when she has forged her broken 

chain 
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again ! 



Beside the jutting rock the few appeared, 
Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd; 
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn. 
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn, 
A little stream came tumbling from the height, 
And struggling into ocean as it might, 
Its bounding crystal frolicked in the ray, 
And gushed from cliff to crag with saltless 

spray ; 
Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 
And fresh as innocence, and more secure, 
Its silver torrent glittered o'er the deep, 



^ Archidamus, King of Sparta, and son of Age- 
silaus, when he saw a machine invented for the 
casting of stones and darts, exclaimed that it was 
the " grave of valor." The same story has been 
told of some knights on the first application of gun- 
powder but the original anecdote is in Plutarch, 



As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 
While far beknv the vast and sullen swell 
Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 
To this young spring they rushed, — all feel- 
ings first 
Absorbed in passion's and in nature's thirst, — 
Drank as they do who drink their last, and 

threw 
Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 
Cooled their scorched throats, and washed 

the gory stains 
From wounds whose only bandage might be 

chains; 
Then, when their drought was quenched, 

looked sadly round. 
As wondering how so many still were found 
Alive and fetterless: — but silent all. 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him for language which his lips denied, 
As though their voices with their cause had 
died. 

IV. 

Stern, and aloof a little from the rest. 

Stood Christian, with his arms across his 

chest. 
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once 

spread 
Along his cheek was livid now as lead ; 
His light-brown locks, so graceful in their 

flow. 
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 
Still as a statue, with his lips comprest 
To stifle even the breath within his breast, 
Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute. 
He stood; and, save a slight beat of his foot. 
Which deepened now and then the sandy 

dint 
Beneath his heel, his form seemed turned to 

flint. 
Some paces further Torquil leaned his head 
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, — 
Not mortally ; — his worst wound was within : 
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 
And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 
Showed that his faintness came not from 

despair 
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another, 
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 
Ben Bunting, who essayed to wash, and wipe, 
And bind his wound — then calmly lit his 

pipe, 
A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
A beacon which had cheered ten thousand 

nights. 
The fourth and last of this deserted group 
Walked up and down — at times would stand, 

then stoop 
To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 
Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 
Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again -^ 



THE ISLAND. 



495 



And then his former movements would re- 
double, 
With something between carelessness and 

trouble. 
This is a long description, but applies 
To scarce five minutes passed before the eyes ; 
But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 
Rend men's lives into immortalities. 

V. 
At length Jack SHyscrape, a mercurial man. 
Who fluttered over all things like a fan, 
More brave than firm and more disposed to 

dare 
And die at once than wrestle with despair, 
Exclaimed, " G — d damn ! " — those syllables 

intense, — 
Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 
As the Turk's " Allah ! " or the Roman's 

more 
Pagan " Proh Jupiter ! " was wont of yore 
To give their- first impressions such a vent. 
By way of echo to embarrassment. 
Jack was embarrassed. — never hero more, 
And as he knew not what to say, he swore : 
Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial sound 
Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound ; 
He drew it from his mouth, and looked full 

wise. 
But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete, 
A peroration I need not repeat. 



But Christian, of a higher order, stood 

Like an extinct volcano in his mood; 

Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 

Of passion reeking from his clouded face ; 

Till lifting up again his sombre eye. 

It glanced on Torquil, who leaned faintly by. 

" And is it thus ?." he cried, " unhappy boy ! 

And thee, too, M^^ — my madness must de- 
stroy ! " 

He said, and strode to where young Torquil 
stood. 

Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood ; 

Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 

And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 

Inquired into his state ; and when he heard 

Tjipe wound was slighter than he deemed or 
feared, 

A moment's brightness passed along his brow. 

As much as such a moment would allow. 

"Yes," he exclaimed, "we are taken in the 
toil. 

But not a coward or a common spoil ; 

Dearly they have bought us — dearly still may 
buy,— 

And I must fall ; but have you strength to 
fly? 

"Twould be some comfort still, could you sur- 
vive; 



Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 
Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell. 
To bear you hence to where a hope may 

dwell ! 
For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be. 
In life or death, the fearless and the free." 



Even as he spoke, around the promontory, 
Which nodded o'er the billows high and 

hoary, 
A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew 
Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew ; 
Onward it came — and, lo ! a second fol- 
lowed — 
Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale 

was hollowed ; 
And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 
Presented well-known aspects to the view, 
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play. 
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the 

spray ; — 
Now perching on the wave's high curl, and 

now 
Dashed downward in the thundering foam 

below, 
Which flings it broad and boiling sheet on 

sheet, 
And slings its high flakes, shivered into sleet : 
But floating still through surf and swell, drew 

nigh 
The barks, like small birds through a lower- 
ing sky ; 
Their art seemed nature — such the skill to 

sweep 
The wave of these born playmates of the 
deep. 

VIII. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
Leaped like a nereid from her shell to land, 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ? 
Neuha — the fond, the faithful, the adored — 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent poured ; 
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer 

clasped. 
As if to be assured 'twas him she grasped ; 
Shuddered to see his yet warm wound, and 

then. 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not 

despair. 
Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could 

blight 
That full-blown moment in its all delight : 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy filled the sob 
That rocked her heart till almost HEARD to 

throb ; 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in i^ature's ecstasy. 



496 



THE ISLAND. 



IX. 

The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 
Were not unmoved ; who are, when hearts 

are greeting ? 
Even Christian gazed upon the maid and 

boy 
With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
Mixed with those bitter thoughts the soul 

arrays 
In hopeless visions of our better days. 
When all's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray. 
" And but for me ! " he said, and turned 

away ; 
Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
A lion looks upon his cubs again ; 
And then relapsed into his sullen guise. 
As heedless of his further destinies. 



But brief their time for good or evil thought ; 
The billows round the promontory brought 
The plash of hostile oars. — Alas ! who made 
That sound a dread ? All round them 

seemed arrayed 
Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : 
She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the 

bay 



Of the armed boats, which hurried to com- 
plete 
The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
Beckoned the natives round her to their 

prows. 
Embarked their guests and launched their 

light canoes ; 
In one placed Christian and his comrades 

twain ; 
But she and Torquil must not part again. 
She fixed him in her own. — Away! away! 
They clear the breakers, dart along the bay, 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hollowed 

lair, 
They skim the blue tops of the billows ; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers 

chased. 
They gain upon them — now they lose again, — 
Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
And now the two canoes in chase divide, 
And follow different courses o'er the tide, 
To baffle the pursuit. — Away! away! 
As life is on each paddle's flight to-day, 
And more than life or lives to Neuha :' Love 
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove — 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
Yet, yet a moment ! — Fly, thou light ark, fly I 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



I. 

White as a white sail on a dusky sea. 
When half the horizon's clouded and half 

free. 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky. 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts ; but still her snowy sail 
Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale : 
Though every wave she climbs divides us 

more. 
The heart still follows from the loneliest 

shore. 

II. 

Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 

A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray. 

The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind, 

Where the rough seal reposes from the wind, 

And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun. 

Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun : 

There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 

The startled echo of the ocean bird. 

Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood, 

The feathered fishers of the solitude. 

A narrow segment of the yellow sand 

On one side forms the outline of a strand ; 



Here the young turtle, crawling from his shell, 
Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell. 
Chipped by the beam, a nursling of the day, 
But hatched for ocean by the fostering ray ; 
The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
Gave mariners a shelter and despair ; 
A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck. 
Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose 
To shield her lover from his following foes; 
But all its secret was not told ; she knew 
In this a treasure hidden from the view. 

« 

Ere the canoes divided, near the spot. 

The men that manned what held her Torquil's 

lot. 
By her command removed, to strengthen more 
The skiffwhich wafted Christian from theshore. 
This he would have opposed ; but with a smile 
She pointed calmly to the craggy isle. 
And bade him " speed and prosper." She^owXdi 

take 
The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 
They parted with this added aid ; afar 
The proa darted like a shooting star, 



TitE IBLAMD. 



497 



And gained on the pursuers, who now steered 
Right on the rock which she and Torquil 

neared. 
They pulled; her arm, though delicate, was 

free 
And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 
And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier 

strength. 
The prow now almost lay within its length 
Of the crag's steep, inexorable face, 
With nought but soundless waters for its base ; 
Within a hundred boats' lengths was the foe. 
And now what refuge but their frail canoe ? 
This Torquil asked with half upbraiding eye. 
Which said — " Has Neuha brought me here 

to die ? 
Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 
And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave?" 

IV. 
They rested on their paddles, and uprose 
Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes, 
Cried,"Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow I" 
Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
There v/as no time to pause — the foes were 

near — 
Chains in his eye, and menace in his ear ; 
With vigor they pulled on, and as they came, 
Hailed him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 
Headlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's skill 
Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 
But how, or where? He dived, and rose no 

more ; 
The boat's crew looked amazed o'er sea and 

shore. 
There was no landing on that precipice. 
Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
They watched awhile to see him float again. 
But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 
The wave rolled on, no ripple on its face. 
Since their first plunge recalled a single trace ; 
The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam, 
That whitened o'er what seemed their latest 

home, 
White as a sepulchre above the pair 
Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) 
The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 
Was all that told of Torquil and his bride; 
And but for this alone the whole might seem 
The vanished phantom of a seaman's dream. 
They paused and searched in vain, then 

pulled away ; 
Even superstition now forbade their stay. 
Some said he had not plunged into the wave. 
But vanished like a corpse-light from a grave ; 
Others, that something supernatural 
Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 
While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 
There was a dead hue of eternity. 
Still as their oars receded from the crag. 
Round every weed a moment would they lag, 
Expectant of some token of their prey ; 



But no — he had melted from them like the 
spray. 

V. 

And where was he the pilgrim of the deep. 
Following the nereid ? Had they ceased to 

weep 
For ever ? or, received in coral caves, 
\yrung life and pity from the softening waves? 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
And sound with mermen the fantastic shell ?' 
Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
Flowing o'er ocean as it streamed in air ? 
Or had they perished, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt ? 



Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
Followed : her track beneath her native sea 
Was as a native's of the element, 
So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went. 
Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 
Which struck and flashed like an amphibious 

steel. 
Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 
The depths where divers held the pearl in 

chase, 
Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 
Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 
Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 
The way — then upward soared — and as she 

spread 
Her arms, and flung the foam from off her 

locks. 
Laughed, and the sound was answered by the 

rocks. 
They had gained a central realm of earth 

again. 
But looked for tree, and field, and sky, in rain. 
Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 
Whose only portal was the keyless wave.l 
(A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 
Save through the billows' glassy veil of green, 
In some transparent ocean holiday, 
When all the finny people are at play,) 
Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's 

eyes. 
And clapped her hands with joy at his sur- 
prise : 
Led him to where the rock appeared to jut 
And form a something like a Triton's hut; 
For all was darkness for a space, till d;iy. 
Through clefts above let in a sobered ray; 
As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 
The dusty monuments from light recoil. 
Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
The vault drew halfher shadow from the scene. 



1 Of this cave (which is no fiction) the original 
will be found in the ninth chapter of " Mariner's 
Account of the Tonga Islands." I have taken the 
poetical liberty to transplant it to Toobonai, the 
last island where any distinct account is left of 
Christian and his comrades. 



498 



THE ISLAJ^D. 



Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 
A plantain-leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
Of the same plantain- leaf a flint she took, 
A few shrunk withered twigs, and from the 

blade 
Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus ar- 
rayed 
The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and 

high. 
And showed a self-born Gothic canopy ; 
The arch upreared by nature's architect, 
The architrave some earthquake might erect ; 
The buttress from some mountain's bosom 

hurled, 
When the Poles crashed, and water was the 

world ; 
Or hardened from some earth-absorbing fire. 
While yet the globe reeked from its funeral 

pyre; 
The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave.i 
Were there, all scooped by Darkness from 

her cave. 
There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 
Fantastic faces moped and mowed on high. 
And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
Thus Nature played with the stalactites, 
And built herself a chapel of the seas. 

VIII. 
And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
And led him into each recess, and showed 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared : 
The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
And sandal oil to fence against the dew ; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
Borne of the fruit ; for board the plantain 

spread 
With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
A banquet in the flesh it covered o'er; 
The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
A pine-torch pile to keep undying light. 
And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene. 
And make their subterranean world serene. 



^ This may seem too minute for the general out- 
line (in Mariner's Account) from which it is taken. 
But few men have travelled without seeing some- 
thing of the kind — on land, that is. Without ad- 
verting to Ellora, in Mango Park's last journal, he 
mentions having met with a rock or mountain so 
exactly resembling a Gothic cathedral, that only 
minute inspection could convince him that it was a 
MTork of nature. 



She had foreseen, since first the stranger's 

sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might 

fail, 
And formed a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the 

hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry 

bower ; 
And now she spread her little store with 

smiles, 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

IX. 

She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, pressed 
Her sheltered love to her impassioned breast ; 
And suited to her soft caresses, told 
An olden tale of love, — for love is old, 
Old as eternity, but not outworn 
With each new being born or to be born : 2 
How a young chief, a thousand moons ago. 
Diving for turtle in the depths below, 
Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 
Into the cave which round and o'er them lay; 
How in some desperate feud of after-time 
He sheltered there a daughter of the cHme, 
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe, 
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe ; 
How, when the storm of war was stilled, he 

led 
His island clan to where the waters spread 
Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door. 
Then dived — it seemed as if to rise no more : 
His wondering mates, amazed within their 

bark. 
Or deemed him mad, or prey to the blue 

shark ; 
Rowed round in sorrow the sea-girded rock. 
Then paused upon their paddles from the 

shock ; 
When, fresh and springing from the deep, 

they saw 
A goddess rise — so deemed they in their awe ; 
And their companion, glorious by her side. 
Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 
And how, when undeceived, the pair they 

bore 
With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to 

shore ; 
How they had gladly lived and calmly died, — 
And why not also Torquil and his bride ? 
Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 
Which followed wildly in that wild recess 



- The reader will recollect the epigram of the 
Greek anthology, or its translation into most of the 
modern languages: — 

" Whoe'er thou art, thy master see — 
He was, or is, or is to be." 



THE ISLAND. 



499 



This tale ; enough that all within that cave 
Was love, though buried strong as in the 

• grave 
Where Abelard, through twenty years of death, 
When Eloisa's form was low^ered beneath 
Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretched, and 

pressed 
The kindling ashes to his kindled breast.i 
The waves without sang round their couch, 

their roar 
As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 
Within, their hearts made all their harmony. 
Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 



And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
Which left them exiles of the hollow rock. 
Where were they ? O'er the sea for life they 

plied. 
To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
Another course had been their choice — but 

where ? 
The wave which bore them still their foes 

would bear. 
Who, disappointed of their former chase. 
In search of Christian now renewed their race. 
Eager with anger, their strong arms made way. 
Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 
They gained upon them, all whose safety lay 
In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
No further chance or choice remained ; and 

right 
For the first further rock which met their sight 
They steered, to take their latest view of land, 
And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 
Dismissed the natives and their shallop, who 
Would still have battled for that scanty crew; 
But Christian bade them seek their shore 

again, 
Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain ; 
For what were simple bow and savage spear 
Against the arms which must be wielded here ? 

XI. 
They landed on a wild but narrow scene. 
Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been ; 
Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 
Stern and sustained, of man's extremity. 
When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 
To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 
They stood, the three, as the three hundred 

stood 
Who dyed Thermopylse with holy blood. 
But, ah! how different! 'tis the cause makes 

all. 
Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
O'er them no fame, eternal and intense, 



1 The tradition is attached to the story of Elo'isa, 
that when her body was lowered into the grave of 
Abelard, (who had been buried twenty years,) he 
opened his arms to receive her. I 



Blazed through the clouds of death and beck- 

oned hence ; 
No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 
Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 
No nation's eyes would on their tomb be 

bent. 
No heroes envy them their monument ; 
However boldly their warm blood was spilt. 
Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 
And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 
The leader of the band he had undone ; 
Who, born perchance for better things, had 

set 
His life upon a cast which lingered yet. 
But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
The chances were in favor of his fall : 
And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock. 
Obdurate as a portion of the rock 
Whereon he stood, and fixed his levelled gun. 
Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 



The boat drew nigh, well armed, and firm the 

crew 
To act whatever duty bade them do ; 
Careless of danger, as the onward wind 
Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 
And yet perhaps they rather wished to go 
Against a nation's than a native foe. 
And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 
Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 
They hailed him to surrender — no reply; 
Their arms were poised, and glittered. in the 

sky. 
They hailed again — no answer; yet once 

more 
They offered quarter louder than before. 
The echoes only, from the rock's rebound. 
Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 
Then flashed the flint, and blazed the volley 

ing flame. 
And the smoke rose between them and their 

aim. 
While the rock rattled with the bullets' knell, 
Which pealed in vain, and flattened as thev 

fell ; 
Then flew the only answer to be given 
By those who had lost all hope in earth or 

heaven; 
After the first fierce peal, as they pulled niglier. 
They heard the voice of Christian shuuf, 

" Now, fire ! " 
And ere the word upon the echo died. 
Two fell; the rest assailed the rock's roiu;h 

side. 
And, furious at the madness of their foes, 
Disdained all further efforts, save to close. 
But steep the crag, and all without a path, 
Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath, 
While, placed midst clefts the least accessibic, 
Which Christian's eye was trained to mark 

full well, 



500 



THE ISLAND. 



The three maintained a strife which must not 

yield, 
In spots where eagles might have chosen to 

build. 
Their every shot told ; while the assailant fell, 
Dashed on the shingles like the limpet shell ; 
But still enough survived, and mounted still, 
Scattering their numbers here and there, until 
Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 
Enough for seizure, near enough to die, 
The desperate trio held aloof their fate 
Bat by a thread, like sharks who have gorged 

the bait ; 
Yet to the very last they batded well. 
And not a groan informed their foes who fell. 
Christian died last — twice wounded; and 

once more 
Mercy was offered when they saw his gore ; 
Too late for life, but not too late to die, 
With, though a hostile hand, to close his eye. 
A limb was broken, and he drooped along 
The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
The sound revived him, or appeared to wake 
Some passion which a weakly gesture spake : 
He beckoned to the foremost, who drew nigh. 
But, as they neared, he reared his weapon 

high — 
His last ball had been aimed, but from his 

breast 
He tore the topmost button from his vest,i 
Down the tube dashed it, levelled, fired, and 

smiled 
As his foe fell ; then, like a serpent, coiled 
His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 
Looked desperate as himself along the deep ; 
Cast one glance back, and clenched his hand, 

and shook 
His last rage 'gainst the earth which he for- 
sook ; 
Then plunged : the rock below received like 

glass 
His body crushed into one gory mass. 
With scarce a shred to tell of human form. 
Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 
A fair-haired scalp, besmeared with blood and 

weeds. 
Yet reeked, the remnant of himself and deeds ; 



-Mn Thibault's account of Frederic the Second 
of Prussia, there is a singular relation of a young 
Frenchman, who with his mistress appeared to be of 
some rank. He enlisted and deserted at Schweid- 
nitz; and after a desperate resistance was retaken, 
having killed an officer, who attempted to seize him 
after he was wounded, by the discharge of his mus- 
ket loaded with a button of his uniform. Some 
circumstances on his court martial raised a great 
interest amongst his judges, who wished to discover 
his real situation in life, which he offered to dis- 
close, but to the king only, to whom he requested 
permission to write. This was refused, and Frede- 
ric was filled with the greatest indignation, from 
baffled curiosity or some other motive, when he un- 
derstood that his request had been denied. 



Some splinters of his weapons (to the last, 
As long as hand could hold, he held them fastj 
Yet glittered, but at distance — hurled away 
l"o rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 
The rest was nothing — save a life mis-spent. 
And soul — but who shall answer where it 

went ? 
'Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and 

they 
Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way. 
Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
Are pardoned their bad hearts for their worse 

brains. 

XIII. 

The deed was over! All were gone or ta'en, 
The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 
Chained on the deck, where once, a gallant 

crew, 
They stood with honor, were the wretched few 
Survivors of the skirmish on the isle; 
But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, 
While o'er them flapped the sea-birds' dewy 

wing. 
Now wheeling nearer from the neighboring 

surge. 
And screaming high their harsh and hungry 

dirge : 
But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 
Eternal with unsympathetic flow; 
Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on. 
And sprung the flying fish against the sun, 
Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 
To gather moisture for another flight. 

XIV. 

'Twas morn ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 
Swam smoothly forth tu catch the rising ray. 
And watch if aught approach the amphibious 

lair 
Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
It flapped, it filled, and to the growing gale 
Bent its broad arcli : her breath began to fail. 
With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and 

high. 
While yet a doubt sprung where its course 

might lie. 
But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 
The shadow lessened as it cleared the bay. 
She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her 

eyes. 
To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
Diminished, dw^indled to a very speck — 
Then vanished. All was ocean, all was joy ! 
Down plunged she through the cave to rouse 

her boy ; 
Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 
That happy love could augur or recall ; 
Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 
His bounding nereid over the broad sea; 



MANFRED. 



501 



Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 
Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
Drifting along the tide, without an oar. 
That eve the strangers chased them from the 

shore ; 
But when these vanished, she pursued her 

prow, 
Regained, and urged to where they found it 

now : 
Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 
Than now were wafted in that slender ark. 

XV. 

Again their own shore rises on the view, 
No more polluted with a hostile hue; 
No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 
A floating dungeon : — all was hope and home ! 
A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 



With sounding shells, and heralded their way ; 
The chiefs came down, around the people 

poured. 
And welcomed Torquil as a son restored ; 
The women thronged, embracing and em- 
braced 
By Neuha, asking where they had been chased, 
And how escaped ? The tale was told ; and 

then 
One acclamation rent the sky again ; 
And from that hour a new tradition gnve 
I'heir sanctuary the name of " Ncuha's Cave." 
A hundred fires, far flickering from the height, 
Blazed o'er the general revel of the night. 
The feast in honor of the guest, returned 
To peace and pleasure, perilously earned ; 
A night succeeded by such happy days 
As only the yet infant world displays. 



MANFRED: A DRAMATIC POEM. 



There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 



[The following extracts from Byron's letters to Mr. Murray will sufficiently explain the history of the 
composition of Manfred: — 

Venice, February 15, 1817. — "I forgot to mention to you, that a kind of Poem in dialogue (in blank 
verse) or Drama, from which ' the Incantation' is an extract, begun last summer in Switzerland, is fin- 
ished: U iS in three acts, but of a very wild, metaphysical, and inexplicable kind. Almost all the persons 
— but IWD or three — are Spirits of the earth and air, or the waters; the scene is in the Alps; tlie hero 
a kind of magician, who is tormented b> a species of remorse, the cause of which is left half unexplained- 
He wanders about invoking these Spirits, which appear to him, and are of no use; he at last goes to the 
very abode of the Evil Principle, m proprid persond, to evocate a ghost, which appears, and gives him 
an ambiguous and disagreeable answer; and, in the third act, he is found by his attendants dying in a 
tov/er where he had studied his art. You may perceive, by this outline, that i have no great opinion of 
this piece of fantasy; but I have at least rendered it quite impossible for the stage, for which my inter- 
course with Drury Lane has given me the greatest contempt. 1 have not even copied it off, and feel too 
lazy at present to attempt the whole; but when I have, I will send it you, and you may either throw it 
into the fire or not." 

March 3. — "I sent you the other day, in two covers, the first act of ' Manfred,' a drama as mad as 
Nat. Lee's Bedlam tragedy, which was in twenty-five acts and some odd scenes : mine is but in three acts." 

March 9. — " In remitting the third act of the sort of dramatic poem of which you will by this time 
have received the two first, I have little to observe, except that you must not publish u (if it ever is 
published) without giving me previous notice. I have really and truly no notion whether it is good or 

:1; and as this was not the case with the principal of my former publications, I am, therefore, inclined 
to rank it very humbly. You will submit it to Mr. Gifford, and to whomsoever you please besides. Ihe 
thing you will see at a glimpse, could never be attempted or thought of for the stage; I much do-' 
for publication even. It is too much in my old style; but I composed it actually with a horr 
stage, and with a view to render the thought of it impracticable, knowing the zeal of my fr- 
should try that for which T have an invincible repugnance, viz., a representation. I certa* 
of a mannerist, and must leave off; but what could I do? Without exertion o/"some '•' 
sunk under rny imagination and reality." 



502 ■ MANFRED. 



March 2^ -" With regard to the ' Witch Drama,' I repeat, that I have not an idea if it is good or bad. 
If b.d U must on no accSunt, be nsked in publication; if good, it is at your service 1 value it at three 
hundred ^u uearo" less, if you like it. Perhaps, if published, the best way will be to add it to your 
w.nter voW, and not publish separately. The price will show you don't pique myself upon it; so 
^neakout You may put it into the fire, if you like, and Gifford don thke. ,„ ,„:,u 

^ 4orU Q -" As for 'Manfred,' the two first acts are the best; the third so so; but I was blown with 
.'.; first and second heats You may call it ' a Poem,' for it is no Drama, and I do not choose to have 
St caUed by so d-d a name, - < a Poem in dialogue,' or- Pantomime, if you will; any thing but a green- 
r®om synonyme; and this is your motto — 

' There are more tilings in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' " 

The following passages are extracts from the ablest contemporary critiques upon Manfred: — 
<' In Manfred, we recognize at once the gloom and potency of that soul which burned and blasted and 
r ^ ..J^nni^^ei in Harold and Conrad, and Lara- and which comes again in this piece, more in sorrow 
fan in an e -more pro^^^^^^ more awful than ever -but with the fiercer traits of its m.san- 

hroDV sub^'ekied as h were, and quenched m the gloom of a deeper despondency. . Manfred doe- not. 
ike Conrad and Lail wreak the anguish of his burning heart in the dangers and daring of desperate and 
p^e'iatorvwar-nos'eek to drown'bitter thoughts in the tumult of perpetual contention; nor yet like 

lEkps^?^t^lsVoiSrup,lirtK:dr^o^ 

and except when stung to impatience by too importunate an intrusian, is k-nd and co^^sj^^Jite to^^^^^^ 

terrific vision of a being invested with .superhuman attributes, in order that he may be capable oimoie 
hdps that could be derived from the majesty of nature, or the d:. ad of f P"«'"°"„ J J^„'™f",^^;eahtV 
S\^Ss" ordf;hVrror5KL-? SSl:^ t rli^ •;i f eSSran AeH„1'a,;d^ SlTute,. 

?-7hi'^""^;?x;lrof^e^i:ette^sT.;::rTh";iu'™r|f 

o„s ; and thus the composition, as a whole, is hable to many and '? » fl^Vrh'^ here b.f St nfo 1 

iivfn to them; ana, accordingly, a sense of imperfection, '"'^o^^}^,?^^,^ '^^"1^^^ 
•nind throughout the perusal of the poem, owing either to some failure on the pa. 



MANFRED. 



503 



of the poet or to the inherent mystery of the subject. But though, on that account, it is difficult t. 
n?"r,?nM ""''""'"^ '^' '^''^'- "^ "'*^. "'"^position, it unquestionably exhibits m^^yr^d^X^^Sio^s 
of mountain scenery -many unpress.ve and terrible pictures of passion, - and many wild and awful 
visionsofimaginary horror." — Professor Wilson.] -"" "i'*ny wua and awlul 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter, 

Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 



Witch of the Alps. 

A RI MANES. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, etc. 



The Scene of -the Drama is amotigst the Higher Alps— partly in the Castle of Man- 
/red, and partly in the Momitains. 



ACT I. 

Scene I.— Manfred alone.— Scene, a Gothic 
Gallery. — Time, Midnight. 

Man. The lamp must be replenished, but 
even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My sHimbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I ca-n resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the wis'e ; 
Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.' 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom. of the world, 
I have essayed, and in my mind there is' 
A power to make these subject to itself— 
But they avail not : I have done men good. 
And I have met with good even among men'— 
But this availed not: I have had my foes. 
And none have baffled, many fallen before 

me — 
But this availed not : — Good, or evil, life, 
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
Have been to me as rain unto the sands. 
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
\nd feel the curse to have no natural fear 
N'or flutiering throb, that beats with hopes or 

wishes, 
3r lurking love of something on the earth.— 
^"^ow to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
/e spirits of the unbounded Universe ! i 



[Original MS. — " Eternal Agency! 

Ye spirits of the immortal Universe ! "] 



Whom I have sought in darkness and ii 

light — 
Ye, wlio do compass earth about, and dweil 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,2 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar 

things — 
I call upon ye by the written charm 



Which 



gives me power upon you ■ 



Rise! 



appear! {A pause. 

I hey come not yet.— Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
Which makes you tremble — by the clafms of 

him 
Who is undying,— Rise ! appear ! Appear ! 

ir ■ L \A P'i'ise. 

It It be so. — Spirits of earth and air, 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell,' 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemned. 
The burning wreck of a demolished world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong curse which is upon mv'soul. 
The thought which is within me and around 

me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

\_A star is seen at the darker end of the gal- 
lery: it is stationary; and a voice is heard 
singing. 

First Spirit. 
Mortal ! to thy bidding bowed, 
From my mansion in the cloud. 
Which the breath of twilight fcuilds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion. 
Which is mixed for my pavilion ; 3 

~m:ms. — — 

' Of inaccessible mountains are the haunts."] 
^ [MS, ^" Which is fit for my pavilion."] 



504 



MANFRED. 



[act I. 



Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
To thine adjuration bowed. 
Mortal — be thy wish avowed! 

Voice of the SECOND SPIRIT. 

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; 

They crowned him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds. 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay .1 
I am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his caverned base — 

And what with me wouldst Thou? 

Voice of the THIRD SPIRIT. 
In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strife. 
Where the wind is a stranger, 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the Mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells ; 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells; 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo rolled — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold 1 

Fourth Spirit. 
Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillowed on fire. 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher; 
Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth. 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth ; 
I have quitted my birthplace, 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ! 

Fifth Spirit. 
i am the Rider of the wind, 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I It-ft behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To spt-ed to thee, o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sailed well, and yet 

'Twiil sink ere ni^jht be past. 

^ [MS,-- " Or makes its ice delay."] 



Sixth Spirit. 

My dwelling is the shadow of the night. 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light ? 

Seventh Spirit. 

The star which rules thy destiny 

Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 

It was a world as fresh and fair 

As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 

Its course was free and regular. 

Space bosomed not a lovelier star. 

The hour arrived — and it became 

A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 

A pathless comet, and a curse. 

The menace of the universe ; 

Still rolling on with innate force, 

Without a sphere, without 'a course, 

A bright deformity on high. 

The monster of the upper sky ! 

And thou! beneath its influence born — 

Thou worm! whom I obey and scorn — 

Forced by a power (which is not thine, 

And lent thee but to make thee mine) 

For this brief moment to descend. 

Where these weak spirits round thee bend 

And parley witli a thing like thee — 

What wouldst thou, Child of Clay! with me ? 

The Seven Spirits. 

Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, wincfs, thy 
star. 
Are at thy beck and bidding. Child of Clay ! 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 
What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals 
— say? 

Man. Forgetfulness 

Fust Spirit. Of what — of whom — and 
why ? 

Man. Of that which is within me ; read it 
there — 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which 
we possess : 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators, each and all, 
These shall be thine. 

Ma7t. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not WTing from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
But — thou mayst die. 

Man. ' Will death bestow it on me ? 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not for- 
get; 
We are eternal ; and to us the past 
Is, as tlie future, present. Art thou answered ? 

Man. Ye mock me — but the power which 
brought ye here 



SCENE l] 



MANFRED. 



50.? 



llath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at 

my will ! 
Tlie mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark. 
The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading, and far darting as your own. 
And shall not yield to yours, though cooped 

in clay. 
Answer, or I will teach you wliat I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answered; our 
reply 
Is even in thine own words. 
Man. Why say ye so ? 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be 
as ours, 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 
Man. I then have called ye from your 
realms in vain ; 
Ye cannot, or ve will not, aid me. 

Spirit. ' Say ; 

What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length 

of days 

Man. Accursed ! what have I to do with 
days ? 
They are too long already, — Hence — be- 
gone ! 
Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will 
would do thee service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine 
eyes ? 
Man. No, none: yet stay — one moment, 

ere we part — 
would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melanoholy sounds, 
As music on the waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Or one, or all, in your accustomed forms. 
Spirit. We have no forms, beyond the ele- 
ments 
Of which we are the mind and principle : 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 
Man. I have no choice ; there is no form 
on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
.\% unto him may seem most fitting — Come! 
Seventh Spirit {^appearing in the shape of 

a beautiful female figure^. Behold! 
Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
Art not a madness and a mockery, 
I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 

And we again will be [ The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crushed ! 
[Manfred falls senseless. 
[A Voice is heard in the Incantation which 
folhnos.) 1 

' [These verses were written in Switzerland, in 



When the moon is on the wave, 
And the glow-worm in the grass, 

And the meteor on the grave. 
And the wisp on the m.orass; 2 

When the failing stars are shooting. 

And the answered owls are hooting, 

And the silent leaves are still 

In the shadow of the hill, 

Shall my soul be upon thine, 

With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish. 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish; 

By a power to thee unknown. 

Thou canst never be alone; 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 

Thou art gathered in a cloud ; 

And for ever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
As a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turned around thy head, 
Thou shalt marvel I am not 
As thy shadow on the spot, 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 
Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 
And a spirit of the air 
Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
In the wind there is a voice 
Shall forbid thee to rejoice; 
And to thee shall Night deny 



i8i6, and transmitted to England for publication 
with the third canto of Childe Harold. " As they 
were written," says Moore, " immediately after the 
last fruitless attempt at reconciliation with Lady 
Byron, it is needless to say who was in the poet's 
thoughts while he penned some of the opening 
stanzas."] 

2 [" And the ivisp on the morass." Hearing, in 
February, i8i8, of a menaced version of Manfred 
by sjme Italian, Byron wrote to his friend iMr. 
Hoppner — " If you have any means of communi- 
catmg with the man, would you permit me to con- 
vey to him the offer of any price he may obtain, or 
think to obtain, for his project, provided he will 
throw his translation into the fire, and promise not 
to undertake any other of that, or any other of my 
things? I will send him his money immediately, on 
this condition." A negotiation was accordingly 
set on foot, and the translator, on receiving two 
hundred francs, delivered up his manuscript, and 
engaged never to translate any other of the poet's 
works. Of his qualifications for the task some 
notion may be formed from the fact, that he had 
turned the word " wisp," in this line, into " a 
bundle of straw."] 



506 



MANFRED. 



[act 1. 



All the quiet of her sky ; 
And the day shall have a sun, 
Which shall make thee wish it done. • 

From thy false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill ; 

From thy own heart I then did wring 

The black blood in its blackest spring ; 

From thy own smile I snatched the snake, 

For there it coiled as in a brake ; 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 

By thy unfathomed gulfs of guile, 

By that most seeming virtuous eye. 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which passed for human thine own heart; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee! and compel i 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die. 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been passed — now wither! 

Scene H. — The Mountain of the Jungfrau. 
— Titne, Morning. — MANFRED alone upon 
the aiffs. 

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon 

me — 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
The remedy I recked of tortured me ; 
I lean no more on super-human aid. 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulfed in darkness. 
It is not of my search. — My mother Earth ! 
And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye 

Mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe. 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme 

edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 



[MS. — " I do adjure thee to this spell."] 



To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 
I feel the impulse — yet 1 do not plunge; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a power upon me which withholds, 
And makes it my fatality to live; 
If it be life to wear within mvself 
fhis barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
Thou winged and cloud-cleavmg minister, 

\^An eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well niayst thou swoop so near me — I should 

be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art 

gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine ' 
Yet pit-rces downward, onward, or above, 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world! [ 

How glorious in its action and itself! ; 

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, 

we. 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
I o sink or soar, with our mixed essence make; 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride. 
Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
Till our mortality predominates. 
And men are — what they name not to them- 
selves. 
And trust not to each other. Flark ! the note, 
[ The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. 
The natural music of the mountain reed — 
For here the pati'iarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air. 
Mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering ' 
herd ; 2 \ 



2 [The germs of this, and of several other pas- | 
sages in Manfred, may be found in the Journal of ] 
his Swiss tour, which Byron transmitted to his '' 
sister: e.g. "Sept. 19. — Arrived at a lake in the 
very bosom of the mountains; left our quadrupeds, 
and ascended further; came to some snow in patches, 
upon which my forehead's perspiration fell like rain, 
making the same dents as in a sieve; the chili of | 
the wind and the snow turned me giddy, but I . 
scrambled on and upwards. Hobhouse went to the 
highest pinnacle. The whole of the mountains 
superb. A shepherd on a steep and very high cliff 
playing upon \\\% pipe ; very different from Arcadia. 
The music of the cows' bdls (for their wealth, like 
the patriarchs', is cattle) in the pastures, which, 
reach to a height far above any mountains in Britain,; 
and the shepherds shouting to us from crag to cragy 
and playing on their reeds where the steeps appeared 
almost inaccessible, with the surrounding scenery, 
realized all that I have ever heard or imagined of a 
pastoral existence — much more so than Greece or][^, 
Asia Minor; for there we are a little too much of J 
the sabre and musket ordt-r, and if there is a croolcj 
in one hand, you are sure to see a gun in the other; 






SCENE II.] 



MANFRED. 



50/ 



My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that 

I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me ! 

Enter from beloxu a CHAMOIS HUNTER. 
Chamois Hunter. Even so 

This way the cha'mois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
R.'pay my break-neck travail. — What is here? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath 

reached 
A height vvhich none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this dis- 
tance — 
I will approach him nearer. 

Man, {?iot perceiving the other). To be 

thus — 
Gray-haired with anguish,! like these blasted 

pines. 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branch- 

less,2 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
Wliich but supplies a feeling to decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
Having been otherwise ! Now furrowed o'er 
With wrinkles, ploughed by moments, not by 

years 
And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
Which I outlive ! — Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush 

me ! 
I hear ye momently above, beneath. 
Crash with a frequent conflict ; 3 but ye pass. 



but this was pure and unmixed — solitary, savage, 
and patriarchal. As we went, they played the 
' Ranz dcs Vaches' and other airs, by way of fare- 
well. I have lately repeopled my mind with 
nature."] 

1 [See the opening lines to the " Prisoner of 
Chillon." Speaking of Marie Antoinette, " I was 
struck," says Madame Campan, " with the aston- 
ishing change mi.^fortune had wrought upon her 
features: her whole head of hair had turned almost 
white, during her transit from Varennes to Paris." 
The same thing occurred to the unfortunate Queen 
Mary. " With calm but imdaunted fortitude," says 
her historian, " she laid her neck upon the block; 
and while one executioner held her hands, the other, 
at the second stroke, cut oft" her head, which, falling 
out of its attire, discovered her hair, already grown 
quite gray with cares and sorrows." The hair of 
Mary's grandson, Charles I., turned quite gray, in 
like manner, during his stay at CarisbronkeH 

2 [" Passed whole woods of withered pines, all 
withered, — trunks stripped and barkless, branches 
lifeless, done by a single winter : their appearance 
reminded me of me and my family." — Swiss 
Journal.^ 

- [" Ascended the Wengern mountain; left the 



And only fall on things that still would live ; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise up from 
the v.iUey ; 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 
Man. The mists boil up around the gla- 
ciers; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sul- 
phury. 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep 

Hell,4 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heaped with the damned like pebbles.— I am 
giddy.5 
C. Han. I must approach him cautiously ; 
if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already, 

A[an. Mountains have fallen. 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's 

splinters ; 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash. 
Which crushed the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
Why stood I not beneath it ? 

C. Hun. Friend : have a care, 

Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
Of him who made you, stand not on that 
brink! 
Man. {not hearing him). Such would have 
been for me a fitting tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they 

shall be — 
In this one plunge.— Farewell, ye opening 
heavens ! 

horses, took off my coat, and went to the summit. 
Oil one side, our view comprised the Jungfrau, with 
all her glaciers; then the Dent d'Argent, shining 
like truth; then the Little Giant, and the Great 
Giant; and last, not least, the Wetterhorn. The 
height of the Jungfrau is thirteen thousand feet above 
the sea, and eleven thousand above the valley. 
Heard the avalanches falling every five minutes 
nearly." — Swiss Journal.^ 
* [MS.— 
" Like foam from the roused ocean of old Hell."] 
■'■' [" The clouds rose from the opposite valley, 
curling up perpendicular precipices, like the/oajii 
of the ocean of hell during a spring tide — it was 
white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in 
appearance. The side we ascended was not of so 
precipitous a nature; but, on arriving at the sum- 
mit, we looked down upon the other side upon a 
boiling sea of cloud, dashing against the crags on 
which we stood — these crags on one side quite per- 
pendicular. Ir passing the masses of snow, I made 



508 



MANFRED. 



[act r 



Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 

Ye were not meant for me — Earth ! take these 

atoms! 
\As Manfred is in act to spring from the 

cliff, the Chamois Hunter seizes and 

retains him with a sudden grasp. 
C. Hint. Hold, madman ! — though aweary 

of thy life, 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — 

Away with me I will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp 

me not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
Spinning around me 1 grow blmd 

What art thou ? 
C. Hun. I'll answer that anon. — Away 

with me 

The clouds grow thicker there — now 

lean on me — 
Place your foot here — here, take this staff, 

and cling 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your 

hand. 
And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
The Chalet will be gained within an hour — 
Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing. 
And something like a pathway, which the tor- 
rent 
Hath washed since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely 

done — 
You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 
\_As they descend the rocks with difficulty, 

the scene closes. 



ACT n. 



Scene I. — A Cottage amongst the Bernese 

Alps. 

Manfred a/^d the Chamois Hunter. 

C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must 
not yet go forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither ? 

Man. It imports not : I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guid- 
ance. 
C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee 
of high lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths. 
Which step from out our mountains to their 
doors, 

a snowball and, pelted Hobhouse with it." — Swiss 
Journal.^ 



I know from childhood — which of these i 
thine ? 
Man. No matter, 

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the questior 
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine 
"Fis of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
'T has thawed my veins among our glaciers 

now 
Let it do thus for thine — .Come, pledge m. 
fairly. 
Man. Away, away 1 there's blood upon th< 
brim ! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth ? 
C. Hun. What dost thou mean ? thy sense 

wander from thee. 
Afan. I say 'tis blood — my blood I the pun 
warm stream 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and ii 

ours 
When we were in our youth, and had on' 

heart. 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed : but still it rises up, 
Coloring the clouds, that shut me out froni 

heaven. 

Where thou art not — and I shall never be. | 

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some 

half-maddening sin, I 

Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'erj 

Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfo 

yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience — 
Alan. Patience and patience ! Hence 
that word was made 
For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey; 
Preach it to mortals of a dusk like thine, — 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! 

I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
Is must be borne, and these wild starts an 
useless. 
Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me -4 
I live. • 

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no health 

ful life. 
Afan. I tell thee, man ! I have lived man; 
years. 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number : ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness. 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still un 
slaked ! 
C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal o 
middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 
Afan. Think'st thou existence doth depenc 
on time ? 
It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
I Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as snn.ls on the sliore, 
, Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 



SCENE II.] 



MANFRED. 



509 



Barren and cold, on which the wild waves 

break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 
C. Hun. Alas! he's mad — but yet I must 

not leave him. 
Man. I would I were — for then the things 

I see 
Would l)ebut a distempered dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st 

upon ? 
Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the 

Alps — 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
Thy drtys of health, and nights of sleep ; thy 

toils. 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 
With cross and garland over its green turf. 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul was scorched al- 
ready ! 
C. Hun. And would'st thou then exchange 

thy lot for mine ? 
Ma7i. No, friend I I would not wrong thee, 

nor exchange 
My lot with living being: I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to 

dream, 
But perisli in their slumber. 

C. Hun. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain. 
Canst thou be black with evil? — say not 

so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreaked re- 
venge 
Upon his enemies ? 

Man. Oh ! no, no, no I 

My injuries came down on those who loved 

me — 
On those whom I best loved : I never 

quelled 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 

And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not. 

But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
"I is time — farewell ! — Here'sgold, andthanks 

for thee — 
No woids — it is • thy due. — Follow me 

not — 
I know my path — the mountain peril's 

past : 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 

\Exit Manfred. 



Scene II. — ^ loivcr Valley in the Alps. — A 
Cataract,^ 

Enter MANFRED. 

It is not noon — thesunbow's rays 2 still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
And fling its lines of foaming light along. 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail. 
The Giant steed, to l)e bestrode by Dt ath, 
As told in the Apocalypse.^ No eyes 
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 
I should be sole in this sweet solitude. 
And with the Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 
[Manfred takes some of the water into the 
palm of his hand, andjlings it into the air ^ 
muttering the adjuration. After a pause 
the Witch of the Alps rises beneath 
the arch of the sunbow of the torrent. 
Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light. 
And dazzling eyes of glory, m whose form 
The charms of earth's least mortal daughters 

grow 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 
Carnationed like a sleeping infant's cheek. 
Rocked by the beating of her mother's heart. 
Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight 

leaves 
Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 
The blush of earth embracing with her 
heaven, — 



1 [This scene is one of the most poetical and 
most sweetly written in the poem. I'hcre is a still 
nnd delicious witchery in the tranquillity and seclu- 
sion of the place, and the celestial beauty of the 
beinsj who reveals herself in the midst of these 
visible enchantments. — Jeffrey. \ 

2 This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over 
the lower part of the Alpine torrents: it is exactly 
like a rainbow come down to pay a visit, and so 
close that you may walk into it: this effect lasts till 
noon. — [" Before ascending the mountain, went to 
the torrent; the sun upon it, forming a raittbow of 
the lower part of all colors, but principally purple 
and gold; the bow moving as you move. I never 
saw any thing like this; it is only in the sunshine." 
— Sit'is's Journal A^ 

^ [" Arrived at the foot of the Jungfrau; glaciers; 
torrents: one of these torrents nine hundred feet in 
height of visible descent; heard an avalanche fall, 
like thunder: glaciers enormous: storm came on — 
thunder, lightnmg, hail; all in perfection, and 
beautiful. 'I'he torrent is in shape curving over the 
rock, like the tail of a white horse streaming in the 
wind, such as it might be conceived would be that 
of the ^ pale horse' on which Death is m.ounted in 
the Apocalypse. It is neither mist nnr water, but 
a something between both : its immense height gives 
it a wave or curve, a spreading here or condensa- 
tion there wonderful and indescribable. — Swiss 
Journal.} 



510 



MANFRED. 



[act It. 



Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er 

thee.i 
Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
Wherein is glassed serenity of soul, 
Which of itself shows immortality, 
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
At times to commune with them — ^if that he 
Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
And gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth I 

I know thee, and the power^ which give thee 

power. 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both. 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what would'st thou 

with me ? 
Matt. To look upon thy beauty — nothing 

further. 2 
The face of the earth hath maddened me, and I 
Take refuge in lier mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 



1 [In all Lord Byron's heroes we recognize, though 
with infinite modifications, the same great charac- 
teristics — a high and audacious conception of the 
power of the mind, — an intense sensibility of pas- 
sion, — an almost boundless capacity of tumultuous 
emotion, — a haunting admiration of the grandeur 
of disordered power, — and, above all, a soul-felt, 
blood-felt delight in beauty. Parisina is full of it to 
overflowing; it breathes from every page of the 
" Prisoner of Chillon; " but it is in "Manfred" 
that it riots and revels among the streams, and 
waterfalls, and groves, and mountains, and heavens. 
There is in the character of Manfred more of the 
self-might of Byron than in all his previous produc- 
tions. He has therein brought, with wonderful 
power, metaphysical conceptions into forms, — and 
we know of no poem in which the aspect of external 
nature is throughout lighted up with an expression 
at once so beautiful, solemn, and majestic. It is the 
poem, next to " Childe Harold," which we should 
give to a foreigner to read, that he might know 
something of Byron. Shakspeare has given to those 
abstractions of human life and being, which are truth 
in the intellect, forms as full, clear, glowing, as the 
idealized forms of visible nature. The very words 
of Ariel picture to us his beautiful being. In " Man- 
fred," we see glorious but immature manifestations 
of similar power. The poet there creates, with de- 
light, thoughts and feelings and fancies into visible 
forms, that he may cling and cleave to them, and 
clasp them in his passion. The beautiful Witch of 
the Alps seems exhaled from the luminous spray of 
the cataract, — as if the poet's eyes, unsated with 
the beauty of inanimate nature, gave spectral appa- 
ritions of loveliness to feed the pure passion of the 
poet's soul. — Professor Wilson.^ 

2 [There is something exquisitely beautiful in all 
this passage; and both the apparition and the dia- 
logue are so managed, that the sense of their im- 
probability is swallowed up in that of their beauty; 
and without actually believing that such spirits exist 
or communicate themselves, we feel for the moment 
as if we stood in their presence. — 7effrey,\ 



But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and 

now 
I search no further. 

Witch. What could be the quest 
Which is not in the power of the most powerful. 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

Man. A l)oon ; 

But why should I repeat it ? 'twere in vain. 
Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter 

it. 
Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but 

the same ; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth 

upwards 
My spirit walked not with the souls of men. 
Nor looked upon the earth with human eyes ; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine. 
The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my 

powers. 
Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. 
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Was there but one who but of her anon. 

I said with men, and with the thoughts of 

men, 
I held but slight communion ; but instead. 
My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top. 
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's 

wing 
Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
In these my early strength exulted ; or 
To follow through the night the moving moon, 
The stars and their development ; or catch 
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
Or to look, listening, on the scattered leaves, 
While Autumn winds were at their evening 

song. 
These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
For if tl\e beings, of whom I was one,-^ 
Hating to be so, — crossed me in my path, 
I felt myself degraded back to them. 
And was all clay again. And then I dived. 
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of 

death. 
Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 
Froin withered bones, and skulls, and heaped 

up dust. 
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I passed 
The nights of years in sciences uniaught, 
Save in the old time; and with time and toi! 
And terrible ordeal, and siich penance 
As in itself hath power upon the air. 
And spirits that do compass air and earth. 
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 
Such as, before me, did tlie Magi, and 



SCENE II.] 



MANFRED. 



511 



He who from out their fountain dwellings 

raised 
Eros and Anteros.i at Gadara, 
As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 
The thirst of knowledge, and the power and 

joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh ! I but thus prolonged my words. 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father, or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
If I h5d such, they seemed not such to me — 

Yet there was one 

Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 

Man. She was like me in lineaments — 

her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
But softened all, and tempered into beauty ; 
She had the same lone thoughts and wander- 
ings, 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than 

mine. 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — her virtues were her 

own — 
I loved her, and destroyed her 1 

Witch. With thy hand ? 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which 

broke her heart — 
It gazed on mine, and withered. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was 

shed — 
I saw — and could not stanch it. 



^ The philosopher Jamblicus. The story of the 
raising of Eros and Antcros may be found in his life 
by Ennapius. It is well told. — [" It is reported of 
him," says Eunapius, " that while he and his schol- 
ars were bathing in the hot baths of Gadara in Syria, 
a dispute arising concerning the baths, he, smiling, 
ordered his disciples to ask the inhabitants by what 
names the two lesser springs, that were nearer and 
handsomer than the rest, were called. To which 
the inhabitants replied, that ' the one was called 
Eros, and the other Anteros, but for what reason 
they knew not.' Upon which Jamblicus, sitting by 
one of the springs, put his hand in the water, and 
muttering some few words to himself, called up a 
fair-complexionedboy, with gold-colored locks dan- 
gling from his back and breast, so that he looked 
like one that was washing: and then, going to the 
other spring, and doing as he had done before, 
called up another Cupid, with darker and more dis- 
hevelled hair : upon which both the Cupids clung 
about Jamblicus; but he presently sent them back 
to their proper places. After this', his friends sub- 
mitted their belief to him in every thing."] 



Witch. And for this-— 

A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
ri)e gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st 

ixick 

To recreant mortality Away! 

Man. Daughter of Air 1 I tell thee, since 

that hour — 
But words are breath — look on me in my 

sleep. 
Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by 

me! 
My solitude is solitude no more. 
But peopled with the Furies ; — I have gnashed 
My teeth in darkness till returning morn. 
Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have 

prayed 
For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 
I have affronted death — but in the war 
Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 
And fatal things passed harmless — the cold 

hand 
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back. 
Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
In fantasy, imagination, all 
The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 
But, like a ebbing wave, it dashed me back 
Into tlie gulf of my unfathomed thouglit. 
I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 
I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 
And that I have to learn — my sciences, 
My long pursued and super-human art. 
Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 
And live — and live for ever. 

Witch. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy power 

Must w^ake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but 

if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 
Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and whom ? 

the spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never! 

Witch. Is this all ? 

Hast thou no gentler answer? — Yet bethink 

thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 

Man. I have said it. 

W 'itch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 
Man. Retire ! 

[ The Witch disappears. 
Man. {alone). We are the fools of time and 

terror : Days 
Steal on us and from us ; yet we live. 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 



512 



MANFRED. 



[act II. 



In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling Heart, 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with 

pain, 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the 

soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead. 
And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet answered to the Hag 
Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he 

slew, 
And died unpardoned — though he called in 

aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath. 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but fulfilled.i 

1 The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta (who 
commanded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and 
afterwards perished for an attempt to betray the 
Lacedaemonians) , and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's 
life of Cimon; and in the Laconics of Pausanias 
the sophist, in his description of Greece. — [The 
following is the passage from Plutarch: — "It is 
related, that when Pausanias was at Byzantium, he 
cast his eyes upon a young virgin named Cleonice, 
of a noble family there, and insisted on having her 
for a mistress. The parents intimidated by his 
power, were under the hard necessity of giving -up 
their daughter. The young woman begged that the 
light might be taken out of his aparttnents, that she 
might go to his bed in secrecy and silence. When 
she entered he was asleep, and she unfortunately 
stumbled upon the candlestick, and threw it down. 
The noise waked him suddenly, and he, in his con- 
fusion, thinking it was an enemy coming to assas- 
sinate him, unsheathed a dagger that lay by him, and 
plunged it into the virgin's heart. After this he 
could never rest. Her image appeared to him every 
night, and with a menacing tone repeated this he- 
roic verse, — 

' Go to the fate which pride and lust prepare! ' 
The allies, highly incensed at this infamous action, 
joined Cimon to besiege him in Byzantium. But 
he found means to escape thence; and, as he was 
still haunted by the spectre, he is said to have ap- 
plied to a temple at Heraclea, where the names of 
the dead were consulted. There he invoked the 
spirit of Cleonice, and entreated her pardon. She 
appeared, and told him ' he would soon be delivered 
/rom all his troubles, after his return to Sparta: ' in 
which, it seems his death was enigmatically fore- 
told. These particulars we have from many histo- 



If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living; had I never loved, 
That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she? 
What is she now? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
But I can act even what I most abhor. 
And champion human fears. — The night ap- 
proaches. \Exit. 

Scene III.— The Smnmit of the Jimgfrau 
Mountahi. 

Enter FIRST Destinv. 

The moon is rising broad, and round, and 

bright. 
And here on snows, where never human 

foot 
Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice. 
We skuTi its rugged breakers, which put on 
Tiie aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam. 
Frozen in a moment "-^ — a dead whirlpool's 

image : 
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. 
The fretwork of some earthquake — where 

the clouds 
Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
Is sacred to our revels, or our viyils ; 
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come 

not. 

A Voice without, singing. 

The Captive Usurper, 

Hurled down from the throne, 
Lay buried in torpor. 

Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shivered his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 

He's Tyrant again ! 



rians." — Langhortt's Plutarch, vol. iii. p. 279. 
" Thus we find," adds the translator, " that it was a 
custom in the Pagan as well as in the Hebrew the- 
ology, to conjure up the spirits of the dead; and 
that the witch of Endor was not the only witch in 
the world."] 

- [" Came to a morass; Hobhouse dismounted to 
get over well; I tried to pass my horse over; the 
horse sunk up to the chin, and of course he and I 
were in the mud together; bemired, but not hurt; 
laughed and rode on. Arrived at the Grindenwald; 
mounted again, and rode to the higher glacier — 
like a frozen hxirricane" — Swiss Journal,} 



SCENE IV.] 



MANFRED. 



513 



With the blood of a million he'll answer my 

care, 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and 
despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sailed on, the ship sailed fast, 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his 

wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the 

hair, 
And he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
A terror on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for 
me ! 

First Destiny, answering. 
The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping: 

Sullenly, slowly. 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The Hving shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish, 
And evil and dread. 

Envelope a nation — 
The blest are the dead, 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation — 
This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my 
doing— ^ 

For ages I've done, and shall still be renew- 
ing! 

Enter the SECOND and THIRD DESTINIES. 

The Three. 

Our hands contain the hearts of men. 

Our footsteps are their graves ; 
We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves I 

First Des. Welcome ! — Where's Nemesis? 
Second Des. At some great work ; 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
Third Des. Behold she cometh. 

Filter Nemesis, 

First Des. Say, where hast thou been? 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

Nem. I was detained repairing shattered 
thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies, 
And making them repent their own revengp ; 
Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 



Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves. 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forI)idden fruit. — Away! 
We have outstayed the hour — mount we our 
clouds I [Exeunt. 

Scene IV.— The Hall of Arimanes.— Ari- 
?nanes on his Throne, a Globe of Fire, sur- 
rounded by the Spirits. 

Hym7i of the SPIRITS. 

Hail to out Master ! — Prince of Earth and 
Air! 
Who walks the clouds and waters — in his 
nand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the 
sea; 
He speaketh — and the clouds reply in 
thunder ; 
He gazeth — frum. his glance the sunbeams 
flee; 
He moveth — earthquakes rend the world 
asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 
His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling 
skies ; i 
And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 
To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is 
his. 
With all its infinite of agonies — 
And his the spirit of whatever is I 

Enter the DESTINIES and NEMESIS. 

First Des. Glory to Arimanes I on the earth 
His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty! 
Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who 
bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his 
throne ! 
Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await 
His nod ! 
Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are 
thine. 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours. 
And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our 

care. 
And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
Have been fulfilled to the utmost. 
Enter MANFRED, 
A Spirit. What is here? 



' [MS.- 

Tlie comets herald through the 
skies."! 



\ crackling 
( bi.inin^^ 



514 



MANFRED. 



[act II. 



A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship ! 

Second Spirtt. I do know the man — 

A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 
Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, 

slave ! — 

What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign? — Tremble, and 

obey! 
All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy 

condemned clay, 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 

Man. I know it ; 

And yet ye see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 

Ma7i. 'Tis taught already ; — many a night 

on the earth. 
On the bare ground, have I bowed down my 

face, 
And strewed my head with ashes ; I have 

known 
The fulness of humiliation, for 
I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his Glory? — Crouch ! I say. 
Man. Bid him bow down to that which is 

above him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not for worship — let him 

kneel. 
And we will kneel together. 

The Spirits. Crush the worm ! 

Tear him in pieces ! — 

First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he's mine, 
Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers and 

will, 
As far as is compatible with clay. 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been 

such 
As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth. 
And they have only taught him what we 

know — 
That knowledge is not happiness, and 

science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, 

nor being, 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is ex- 
empt. 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their conse- 
quence 
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not. 



Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be — be it so, or not. 
No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 
Nem. What doth he here then? 
First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ye know what I have known ; and 
without power 
I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
Nem. What would'st thou? 
Ma7i. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 
Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal? 
Ari. Yea. 

Neyn, Whom would'st thou 

Uncharnel ? 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 

Astarte, 

Nemesis. 
Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever tliou art, 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth. 

Of the mould of thy clay. 
Which returned to the earth, 

Reappear to the day 1 
Bear what thou borest. 

The heart and the form, 
And the aspect thou worest 
Redeem from the worm. 
Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 
[77^,? Phantom <?/ASTARTE rises and stands 
in the midst. 

Afan. Can this be death ? there's bloom 
upon her cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perished leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh, God 1 that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 
By the power which hath broken 

The grave which enthralled thee, 
Speak to him who hath spoken. 

Or those who have called thee ! 

Matt. She is silent. 

And in that silence I am more than answered. 

Nem. My power extends no further. Prince 
of air! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

Ari. Spirit — obey this sceptre ! 

Nem. Silent still! 



SCENE IV.] 



MANFRED. 



515 



She is not of our order, but belongs 

To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is 

vain, 
Anc we are baffled also. 

Ahvi. Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
Ihavesomiich endured — so much endured — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed 

thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst 

me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
For I have called on thee in the still night, 
Startled the slumbering birds from the hushed 

boughs, 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the 

caves 
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name. 
Which answered me — many things answered 

me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatched the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of 

thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wandered o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me! though it be in wrath ; — but 

say — 
I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
This once — once more 1 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred ! 
Man. Say on, say on — 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 
Phan. Manfred! To-morrow ends thine 

earthly ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. One word for mercy! Say, thou 

lovest me. 
Phan. Manfred ! 

[ The Spirit of AST ARTE disappears}- 



1 [Over this fine drama, a moral feeling hangs 
like a sombrous thunder cloud. No other guilt but 
that so darkly shadowed out could have furnished 



Nem. She's gone, and will not be recalled ; 
Her words will be fulfilled. Return to the 
earth. 
A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be 
a mortal 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet^see, he mastereth him- 
self, and makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

Nem. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 
Man. None. 

Nem. Then for a time farewell. 

Man. We meet then ! Where ? On the 
earth ? — 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

{^Exit Manfred. 

{Scene closes.) 



ACT nL2 

Scene L — A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 

Her. It wants but one till sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

so dreadful an illustration of the hideous aberra- 
tions of human nature, however noble and majestic, 
when left a prey to its desires, its passions, and its 
imagination. The beauty, at one time so inno- 
cently adored, is at last soiled, profaned, and vio- 
lated. Affection, love, guilt, horror, remorse, and 
death, come in terrible succession, yet all darkly 
linked together. We think of Astarte as young, 
beautiful, innocent — guilty — lost — murdered — 
buried — judged — pardoned; but still, in her per- 
mitted visit to earth, speaking in a voice of sorrow, 
and with a countenance yet pale with mortal 
trouble. We had but a glimpse of her in her 
beauty and innocence; but, at last, she rises up be- 
fore us in all the mortal silence of a ghost, with 
fixed, glazed, and passionless eyes, revealing death, 
judgment, and eternity. The nioral breathes and 
burns in every word, — in sadness, misery, insan- 
ity, desolation, and death. The work is ' instinct 
with spirit,' — and in the agony and distraction, and 
all its dimly imagined causes, we behold, though 
broken up, confused, and shattered, the elements of 
a purer existence. — Professor Wilson.'^ 

- [The third Act, as originally written, being 
shown to Mr. Gifford, he expressed his unfavorable 
opinion of it very distinctly; and Mr. Murray 
transmitted this to Bvron. The result is told in 
the following extracts from his letters : — 



516 



MANFRED. 



[act III, 



Man. It is well : 

Thou may'st retire. \_Exit HERMAN. 

Man. {alofid) . There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness! which till now 
Did not belong to wliat I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fooled the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should 

deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but 

once : 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new 

sense, 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 
Reader HERMAN. 
Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice 
craves 
To greet your presence. 

Etiier the ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE. 
Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to 
these walls ; 
Thy presence honors them, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so, Count ! — 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 
Afan. Herman, retire. — What would my 

reverend guest ? 
Abbot. Thus, without prelude: — Age and 
zeal, my office. 



"Venice, April 14, 1817. — The third Act is cer- 
tainly d — d bad, and, like the Archbi:5hop of Gre- 
nada's homily (which savored of the palsy), has 
the dregs of my fever, during which it was written. 
It must on no account be published in its present 
state. I will try and reform it, or rewrite it alto- 
gether; but the impulse is gone, and I have no 
chance of making any thing out of it. The speech 
of Manfred to the Sun is the only part of this Act I 
thought good myself; the rest is certainly as bad as 
bad can be, and I wonder what the devil possessed 
me. I am very glad, indeed, that you sent me Mr. 
Gilford's opinion without deduction. Do you sup- 
pose me such a booby as not to be very much 
obliged to him? of that I was not, and am not, con- 
vinced and convicted in my conscience of this same 
overt act of nonsense? I shall try at it again; in 
the mean time, lay it upon the shelf — the whole 
Drama I mean., — Recollect not to publish, upon 
pain of I know not what, until I have tried again at 
the third act. I am not sure that I shall try, and 
still less that I sh.ill succeed if I do." 

" Rome, May 5. — I have rewritten the greater 
part, and returned what is not altered in the proof 
you sent me. The Abbot is become a good man, 
and the Spirits are brought in at the death. You 
will find. I think, some good poetry in this new Act, 
here and there: and if so. print it, without sending 
me further proofs, undi'rMr. Gifford'' s correction, 
if he will have the goodness to overlook it."] 



And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighbor- 
hood. 
May also be my herald. Rumors strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries : may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpaired ! 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. 'Tis said thou boldest converse with 
the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes. 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou communest. I know that with man- 
kind. 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch 
these things ? 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared 
peasantry — 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 
I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church 
to heaven. 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply : 
whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a 

mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinned 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! i 



1 [Thus far the text stands as originally written: 
this was the sequel of the scene as given in the first 
MS.: — 

" Abbot. Then, hear and tremble! For the 
headstrong wretch 
Who in the mail of innate hardihood 
Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, 
There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eter- 
nal 

Man. Charity, most reverend father, 
Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, 
That I would call thee back to it: but say, 
What wouldst thou with me? 

Abbot. It may be there are 

Things that would shake thee — but I keep them 

back, 
And give thee till to-morrow to repent. 
Then if thou dost not all devote thyself 
To penance, and with gift of all thy lands 
To the monastery 

Man. I understand thee, — well! 

Abbot. Expect no mercy; I have warned thee. 

Man. {opening the casket). Stop — 
Tliere is a gift for thee within this casket. 



SCENE I.] 



MANFRED. 



517 



Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of pun- 

isiiincnt, 
But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Have given me power to smooth the path 

from sin 



[Manfred opens the casket, strikes a light, 
and bterns some incense. 
Ho! Ashtaroth! 

The Demon Ashtaroth appears, singing as 
follows : — 
The raven sits 

On the raven-stone, 
And his black wing flits 

O'er the milk-white bone. 
To and fro, as the night-winds blow, 

The carcass of the assassin swings; 
And there alone, on the raven-stone,* 

The raven flaps his dusky wings. 

The fetters creak — and his ebon beak 

Croaks to the close of the hollow sound; 
And this is the tune, by the light of the moon, 

To which the witches dance their round — 
Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily, 

Merrily, speeds the ball: 
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds. 

Flock to the witches' carnival. 

Abbot. I fear thee not — hence — hence — 
Avaunt thee, evil one! — help, ho! without there! 
Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn — to 
' its peak — 
To its extremest peak — watch with him there 
From now till sunrise; let him gaze, and know 
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. 
But harm him not; and, when the morrow breaks, 
Set him down safe in his cell — away with him! 
Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too. 
Convent and all, to bear him company? 
Man. No, this will serve for the present. Take 

him up. 
Ash. Come, friar! now an exorcism or two. 
And we shall fly the lighter. 

Ashtaroth disappears with the Abbot, singing 
as follows : — 
A prodigal son, and a maid undone, 

And a widow revvedded within the year; 
And a worldly monk, and a pregnant nun. 
Are things which every day appear. 

Manfred alone. 

Man. Why would this fool break in on me, and 
force 
My art to pranks fantastical? — no matter. 
It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens, 
And weighs a tixed fireboding on my soul: 
But it is calm — calm as a sullen sea 
After the hurricane; the winds are still, 
But the cold waves swell high and heavily. 
And there is danger in them. Such a rest 
Is no repose. My life hath been a combat, 
And every thought a wound, till I am scarred 
In the immortal part of me. — What now? "] 

*" Raven-stone (Rabenstein), a translation of 
the German word for the gibbet, which in Germany 
and Switzerland is permanent and made of stone." 



To higher hope and better thoughts; the first 
I leave to heaven, — "Vengeance is mine 

alone! " 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy 
men, 
Xor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these, 
The innate tortures of that deep despair, 
Which is remorse without the fear of hell. 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and re- 
venge 
Upon itself; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self-condemned 
He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly eiTors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall be 

taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardoned. 

Man. When Rome's sixth emperor i was 
near his last. 
The victim of a self-infiicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a public death 2 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier. 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanched 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back, and 

said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
" It is too late — • is this fidelity ? " 

Abbot. And what of this ? 

Man. I answer with the Roman — 

" It is too late! " 

Abbot. It never can be so. 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, 
And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou 

no hope ? 
"Tis strange — even those who do despair 
above. 



1 [Otho, being defeated in a general engagement 
near Brixelium, stabbed hiinselt". Plutarch says, 
that, though he lived full as badly as Nero, his last 
moments were those of a philosopher. He com- 
forted his soldiers who lamented his fortune, and 
expressed his c.^ncern for their safety, when they 
solicited to pay him the last friendly offices.] 

2 MS.— 

"To shun j",t'°:-fj;?if''rji'"'''- '!"•'>• 

Choose between them."] 



518 



MANFRED. 



[act III. 



Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth, 
To which frail twig they cling, like drowning 
men. 

Man. Ay — father ! I have had those earthly 
visions 
And nuble aspirations in my youth, 
To make my own the mind of other men, 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it might be to tail; 
But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, 
Which having leaped from its more dazzling 

height, 
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 
(Wiiich casts up misty columns that become 
Clouds raining from the reascended skies,) 
Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past, 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wherefore so ? 

Man. I could not tame my nature down ; 
for he 
Must serve who fain would sway — and soothe 

— and sue — 
And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie — who would become 
A miglity tiling amongst the mean, and such 
The mass are ; I disdained to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other 
men ? 

Afan. Because my nature was averse from 
hfe ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : — like the wind. 
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps 

o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to 

blast. 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves. 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly; such hath been 
The course of my existence; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

I 'gin to fear that thou ait past all aid 
From me and from my calling; yet so young, 
I still would 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age. 
Without the violence of wailike dr^ath ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weari- 



ness — 
Some of disease 



and some insanitv- 



' [Tins speech has been quoted in more than one 
of the sketches of the poet's own life. Much earlier, , 
when only twenty-three years of age, he had thus j 
prophesied: — " It seems as if 1 were to experience 
in my youth the greatest misery of old age. My 
friends fall around me, and I shall be left a lonely tree 



And some of withered, or of broken hearts; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are numbered in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me I for even of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these things. 
One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
Am what I am, but that I ever was. 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

Man. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thine years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewelL- 

[Zfjir/V Manfred. 

Abbot. This should have been a noble 
creature : 3 he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 

before I am withered. Other men can always take 
refuge in their families — / have no resource but my 
own rellections, and tiiey present no prospect, here 
or hereafter, except the selfish satisfaction of sur- 
viving my betters. I am, indeed, very wretched. 
My days are listless, and my nights restless. I 
have very seldom any society; and when I have, I 
run out of it. I don't know that I sha'n't end with 
insanity." — Byrort's Letters, i8ii.] 

- [ " Of the immortality of the soul, it appears to 
me that there can be little doubt — if we attend for 
a moment to the action of mind. It is in per- 
petual activity. I used to doubt of it — but reP.ec- 
tion has taught me better. How far our future st -ste 
will be individual; or, rather, how far it will at all 
resemble our present existence, is another question ; 
but that the mind is eternal seems as probable as 
that the body is not so." — Byron's Diary, lim. 
— "I have no wish to reject Christianity without 
investigation; on the contrary, I am very desirous 
of believing; for I have no happiness in my present 
unsettled notions on religion." — Byron's Conver- 
sations luitti Kennedy, 1823.] 

•> [There are three only, even among the great 
poets of modern times, who have chosen to depict, 
in their full shape and vigor, those agonies to whi.h 
great and meditative intellects are, in the present 
progress of human history, exposed by the eternal 
recurrence of a deep and discontented scepticism. 
But there is only one who has dared to represent 
himself as the victim of those nameless and unlc- 
finable sufferings. Goethe chose for his doubts 
and his darkness the terrible disguise of the 
mysterious Faustus. Schiller, with still gre iter 
boldness, planted the same anguish in the le^dc s, 
haughty, and heroic bosom of Wallensiein. liut 
Byron has sought no external symbol i.i which to 
embody the inquietudes of his soul. He takes the 
world, and all that it inherit, for his arena and his 
spectators; and he displays himself before tlicir 
gaze, wrestling unceasingly and ineffectually with 
the demon that torments him. At times, there is 
something mournful and depressing in his scepti- 
cism ; but oftener it is of a high and solemn character, 
approaching to the very verge of a confiding faith. 
Whatever the poet may believe, we, his readers, 
always feel ourselves too much ennobled and ele- 



SCENE III.] 



MANFRED. 



519 



A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure 

thoughts 
Mixed, and contending without end or order, 
All dormant or destruct-ive : he will perish. 
And yet he must not; I will try once more, 
For such are woi th redemption ; and my duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I'll follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

"lExit Abbot. 

Scene II. — Another Chamber. 
Manfred and Herman. 

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you 
at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so ? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the Window of the 
Hall.- 

Glorious Orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sonsl 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they,which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was revealed 1 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladdened, on their mountain tops, 

the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they poured 
Themselves in orisons 1 Thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief 

star! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 

vated, even by his melancholy, not to be confirmed 
in our own belief by the verjj doubts so majestically 
conceived and uttered. His scepticism, if it ever 
approaches to a creed, carries with it its refutation 
in its grandeur. There is neither philosophy nor reli- 
gion m those bitter and savage taunts which have 
been cruelly thrown out, from many quarters, 
against those moods of mind which are involuntary, 
and will not pass away ; the shadows and spectres 
which still haunt his imagination may once have 
disturbed our own ; — through his gloom there are 
frequent flashes of illumination; — and the sublime 
sadness which to him is breathed from the mysteries 
of mortal existence, is always joined with a longing 
after immortality, and expressed in language that 
is itself divine. — Professor li'/tson.] 

1 " And it came to pass, that the So7is of God saw 
the daughters of men, that they were fair," etc. — 
" There were giants in the earth in those days; and 
also after that, when the Sons of God czme in unto the 
daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the 
same became mightv men which were of old, men 
of renown." — Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4. 



And hearts of all who walk within thy ravs ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the cumcs. 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or tar, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee 
Even as our outward aspects; — thou dost 

rise. 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have 

been ^ 

Of a more fatal nature.2 He is gone : 
I follow^. [Exit Manfred. 

Scene \\\.— The Mountains.— The Castle 
of Manfred at some distance. — A Terrace 
before a Tozver. — Time, Twilight. 

Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of 
Manfred. 

Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night after night, 
for years. 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower. 
Without a witness, 1 have been within it, — 
So have we all been oft-times ; but from it, 
Or Its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One chamber where none enter: I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three 

years. 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'Twere dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st al- 
ready. 
Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and 
wise. 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt with- 
in the castle — 
How many years is't ? 

Manuel. " Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served him father, whom he nought resem- 
bles. 
Her. There be more sons in like predica- 
ment. 
But wherein do they differ ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; 
Coimt Sigismund was proud, — but gay and 

free, — 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

2 [" Pray, was Manfred's speech to the Sun still 
retained in Act third? I hope so: it was one of the 
best in ihe thing, and better than the Coliseum." — 
Byron's Letters, 1817.] 



520 



MAMFRED. 



[act lit. 



But those were jocund times! I would that 

such 
Would visit the old .walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have 

seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. i 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

R^ilate me some to while away our watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happened hereabouts, by this same 

tower. 
Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do 

remember 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening; — yon red cloud, which 

rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his 

tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly 

things 
That lived, the only thing he seemed to 

love, — 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 

The lady Astarte, his "^ 

Hush 1 who comes here ? 
Enter the Abbot. 



1 [MS.— 

" Some strange things in these few years."] 

- [The remainder of the third Act, in its original 
shape, ran thus : — 

Her. Look — look — the tower — 
The tower's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth ! what 

sound, 
What dreadful sound is that? 

\_A crash like tJiuitder. 

Manuel. Help, help, there! —to the rescue of 
the Count, — 
The Count's in danger, — what ho! there! approach ! 

{^The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry ap- 
proach, stnpejied with terror. 
If there be any of you who have he.irt 
And love of Iiuman kind, and will to aid 
Those in distress — pause not — but follow me — 
The pirtal's open, follow. [Manuel ^^^-j /;/. 

Her. Come — who follows? 
What, none of ye? — ye recreants! shiver then 
With )ut. I will not see old Manuel risk 
Hisfew remaining years unaided. [Herman ^<?^jz'«. 

Vassal. Hark! — 
No — all is silent — not a breath — the flame 
Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone: 
What may this mean? Let's enter! 

Peasant. Faith, not I, — 

Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join, 
I then will stay behind; but, for my part, 
I do not see precisely to what end. 



Abbot. Where is your master ? 

Her. Yonder in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speak with him. 

Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee. 

Knock, and apprise the Count of my approach. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 

I pray you pause. 

Abbot. " Why so? 

Manuel. But step this way, 

And I will tell you further. \_Exeunt. 

Scene W ? — Interior of the Tower. 

Manfred alone. 

The stars.are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful! 
I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 

Vassal. Cease your vain prating — come. 
Manuel {speaking withi)!). 'Tis all in vain — 
He's dead. 
Her. {within). Not so — even now methought 
he moved; 
But it is dark — so bear him gently out — 
Softly — how cold he is! take care of his temples 
In winding down the staircase. 

Reenter MAnvKi^and Herman, bearing Manfred 
z'« their Arms. 
Manuel. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and 
bring 
What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed 
For the leech to the city — quick ! .some water there ! 
Her. His cheek is black — but there is a faint 
beat 
Still lingering about the heart. Some water. 

[They sprinkle Manfred 7uith water : after 

a pause, he gives some signs of life. 
Manuel. He seems to strive to speak — come — 
clieerly, Count! 
He moves his lips — canst hear him? I am old, 
And cannot catch faint sounds. 

[Herman i^iclining his head and listening. 
Her. I hear a word 

Or two — but indistinctly — what is ne.xt? 
What's to be done? let's bear him to the castle. 
[Manfred motions with his hand not to remove 

him. 
Manuel. He disapproves — and 'twere of no 
avail — 
He changes rapidly. 
Her. 'Twill soon be over.] 

3 [The opening of this scene is, perhaps, the finest 
passage in the drama; and its solemn, calm, and 
majestic character throws an air of grandeur over 






SCENE IV.] 



MANFRED. 



52] 



Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 

Of dim and solitary loveliness, 

I learned the language of another world. 

I do remember me, that in my youth, 

When I was wandering, — upon such a night 

I stood within the Coliseum's wall,i 

Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; 

The trees which grew along the broken 

arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the 

stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
The watchdog bayed beyond the Tiber; and 
More near from out the Caesars' palace came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly. 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
Within a bowshot — Where the Cassars dwelt. 
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
A grove which springs through levelled battle- 
ments. 
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan 

halls. 
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, 

upon 
All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
Which softened down the hoar austerity 
Of rugged desolation, and filled up. 
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
And making that which was not, till the 

place 
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still 

rule 
Our spirits from their urns. — 

'Twas such a night 1 
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest 

fiight 



the catastrophe, which was in danger of appearing 
extravagant, and somewhat too much in the style 
of the " Devil and Dr. Faustus." — \Vilson.'\ 

^ [" Drove at midnight to see the Coliseum by 
moonlight: but what can I say of the C'jliseum? 
It must be seen; to describe it I should have 
thought impossible, if I had not read 'Manfred.' 
To see it aright, as the Poet of the North tells us of 
the fair Melrose, one ' must see it by the pale moon- 
light.' The stillness of night, the whispering echoes, 
the moonlight shadows, and the awful grandeur of 
the impending ruins, form a scene of romantic sub- 
limity, such as Byron alone could describe as it 
deserves. His description is the verv thing itself." 
— Matthew's Diary of an Invalid.\ 



Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the ABBOT. 

Abbot. My good lord ! 

I crave a second grace for this approach; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say 

heart — 
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I 

should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wandered ; 
But is not yet all lost. 

Alan. Thou know'st me not ; 

My days are numbered, and my deeds re- 
corded : 
Retire, or 'twill be dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace 
me ? 

Muft. Not I ; 
I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost thou mean ? 

Alan. Look there ! 

What dost thou see ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Afa?i. Look there, I say, 

And steadfastly ; — now tell me what thou 
seest ? 

Abbot. That which should shake me, — but 
I fear it not — 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise. 
Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds : he stands be- 
tween 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 

Alan. Thou hast no cause — he shall not 
harm thee — but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I say to thee — Retire 1 

Abbot. And I reply — 

Never — till I have battled with this fiend: — 
What doth he here ? 

Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ? — 
I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. • 

Abbot. Alas 1 lost mortal ! what with guests 
like these 
Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake : 
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him? 
Ah ! he unveils his aspect : on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
A vaunt ! 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 

Spirit. Come ! 

Abbot. What ajrt thou, unknown being ? an- 
swer ! — speak ! 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come! 
'tis time. 



522 



MANFRED. 



[act III. 



Man. I am prepared for all things, but 
deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent 
Ihee here ? 

Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! come ! 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee 
hence! 

Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come — Away! 
I say. 

Alan. 1 knew, and know my hour is come, 
but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 

Spirit. Then I must summon up my breth- 
ren. — Rise ! [ Other Spirits rise up. 

Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones! — Avaunt ! I 
say, — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
And I do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine 

order ; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away! away! 

Alan. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly 

strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits , what ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
Which made thee wretched ! 

Afan. Thou false fiend, thou liest'. 

My life is in its last hour, — that 1 know, 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour; 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy 

crew, 
But by superior science — penance — dar- 
ing— 
And length of watching — strength of mind — 

and skill 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side. 
And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 

Spirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

Man. What are they to such as thee? 

Must crimes be punished but by other crimes, 
And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! 
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 



Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : 
What I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from 

thine : 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
When stripped of this mortality, derives 
No color from the fleeting things without ; 
But is absorbed in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst 

not tempt me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
But was my own destroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 
The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 
\_The Demons disappear. 
Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art — thy lips 

are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping 

throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers tq 

Heaven — 
Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not 

thus. 
Man. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee 

not ; 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me Fare thee 

well — 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart — 
But yet one prayer — Ala^s ! how fares it with 

thee ? 
Man. Old man^ 'tis not so difficult to die.l 
[Manfred expires. 
Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en its 

earthless flight — 
Whither? I dread to think — but he is gone,2 



1 [In the first edition, this line was accidentally 
left out. On discovering the omission, Byron wrote 
to Mr. Murray — "You have destroyed the whole 
effect and moral of the poem, by omitting the last 
line of Manfred's speaking."] 

'^ In June, 1820, Byron thus writes to his pub- 
lisher: — " Inclosed is something which will inter- 
est you; to wit, the opinion of the greatest man in 
Germany — perhaps in Europe — upon one of the 
great men of your advertisements (all 'famous 
hands,' as Jacob Tonson used to say of his raga- 
muffins) — in short, a 'critic of Goethe's w^on Man- 
fred. There is the original, an English transla- 
tion, and an Italian one: keep them all in your 
archives; for the opinions of such a man as Goethe, 
whether favorable or not, are always interesting — 
and this is more so, as favorable. His Faust I 
never read, for I don't know German; but Matthew 
Monk Lewis, in 1816, at Coligny, translated most 
of it to me vivd voce, and I was naturally much 
struck with it, but it was the Steinbach and the 
Jungfrau, and something else, much more than 
Faustus, that made me write Manfred. The first 



SCENE IV.] 



MANFRED. 



523 



scene, however, and that of Faustus are very simi- 
lar." 

The following is the extract from Goethe's Kunst 
und Alterthuin {i.e. Art and Antiquity) which 
the above letter inclosed: — 

" Byron's tragedy, ' Manfred,' was to me a won- 
derful phenomenon, and one that closely touched 
me. This singularly intellectual poet has taken my 
Faustus to himself, and extracted from it the strong- 
est nourishment for his hypochondriac humor. He 
has made use of the impelling principles in his own 
way, for his own purposes, so that no one of them 
remains the same; and it is particularly on this ac- 
count that I cannot enough admire his genius. 
The whole is in this way so completely formed 
anew, that it would be an interesting task for the 
critic to point out, not only the alterations he has 
made, but their degree of resemblance with, or dis- 
similarity to, the original: in the course of which I 
cannot deny, that the gloomy heat of an unbounded 
and exuberant despair becomes at last oppressive 
to us. Yet is the dissatisfaction we feel always 
connected with esteem and admiration. 

" We find thus, in this tragedy, the quintessence 
of the most astonishing talent born to be its own 
tormeitor. The character of Lord Byron's life and, 
poetry hardly permits a just and equitable appreci- 
ation. He has often enough confessed what it is 
that torments him. He has repeatedly portrayed 
it; and scarcely any one feels compassion for this 
intolerable suffering, over which he is ever labori- 
ously ruminating. There are, properly speaking, 
two females whose phantoms for ever haunt him, 
and which, in this piece also, perform principal 
parts — one under the name of Astarte, the other 
without form or actual presence, and merely a voice. 
Of the horrid occurrence which took place with 
the fofmer, the following is related: — When a bold 
and enterprising young man, he won the affections 
of a Florentine lady-* Her husband discovered 
the amour, and murdered his wife; but the mur- 
derer was the same night found dead in the street, 
and there was no one on whom any suspicion could 
be attached. Lord Byron removed from Florence, 
and these spirits haunted him all his life after. 

" This romantic incident is rendered highly prob- 
able by innumerable allusions to it in his poems. 



* [" The grave confidence with which the vener- 
able critic traces the fancies of his brother poet to 
real persons and events, making no difficulty even 
of a double murder at Florence to furnish grounds 
for his theory, affords an amusing instance of the 
disp.'sition so prevalent throughout Europe, to pic- 
ture Byron as a man of marvels and mysteries, as 
well in his life as his poetry. To these exaggerated, 
or wholly false notions of him, the numerous fictions 
p dmed upon the world of his romantic tours and 
wonderfid adventures, in places he never saw, and 
with persons that never existed, have, no doubt, 
considerably contributed; and the consequence is, 
so utterly out of truth and nature are the represen- 
tations of hijs life and character long current upon 
the Continent, that it may be questioned whether 
the real ' fle:;h and blood ' hero of these pages, — 
the social, practical-minded, and, with all his faults 
and eccentricities, English Lord Byron, — may not, 
to the over-exalted imaginations of most of his 
foreign admirers, appear but an ordinary, unro- 
mantic, and prosaic personage." — Moore's Life of 
Byron.'\ 



As, for instance, when turning his sad contempla- 
tions inwards, he applies to himself the fatal history 
of the king of Sparta. It is as follows: — Pausa- 
nias, a Lacedaemonian general, acquires glory by 
the important victory at Plata;a but afterwards for- 
feits the confidence of his countrymen through his 
arrogance, obstinacy, and secret intrigues with the 
enemies of his country. This man draws upon 
himself the heavy guilt of innocent blood, which 
attends him to his end; for, while commanding the 
fleet of the allied Greeks, in the Black Sea, he is 
inflamed with a violent passion for a Byzantine 
maiden. After long resistance, he at length obtains 
her from her parents, and she is to be delivered up 
to him at night. She modestly desires the servant 
to put out the lamp, and, while groping her way in 
tlie dark, she overturns it. Patisanias is awakened 
from his sleep — apprehensive of an attack from 
murderers, he seizes his sword, and destroys his 
mistress. The horrid sight never leaves him. Her 
shade pursues him unceasingly, and he implores 
for aid in vain from the gods and the exorcising 
priests. 

" That poet must have a lacerated heart who se- 
lects such a scene from antiquity, appropriates it to 
himself, and burdens his tragic image with it. The 
following soliloquy, which is overladen with gloom 
and a weariness of life, is, by this remark, rendered 
intelligible. We recommend it as an exercise to all 
friends of declamation. Hamlet's soliloquy appears 
improved upon here." — Goethe here subjoins Man- 
fred's soliloquy, beginning " We are the fools of 
time and terror," in which the allusion to Pausanias 
occurs. The reader will not be sorry to pass from 
this German criticism to that of the Edinburgh Re- 
view on Manfred. — " This is, undoubtedly, a work 
of great genius and originality. Its worst fault, 
perhaps, is that it fatigues and overawes us by the 
uniformity of its terror and solemnity. Another, 
is the painful and offensive nature of the circum- 
stance on which its distress is ultimately founded. 
I The lyrical songs of the Spirits are too long, and 
i not all excellent. There is something of pedantry 
in them now and then; and even Manfred deals in 
j classical allusions a little too much. If we were to 
consider it as a proper drama, or even as a finished 
! poem, we should be obliged to add, that it is far too 
I indistinct and unsatisfactory. But this we take to 
I be according to the design and conception of the 
author. He contemplated but a dim and magnifi- 
cent sketch of a subject which did not admit of 
more accurate drawing or more brilliant coloring. 
Its obscurity is a part of its grandeur; — and the 
darkness that rests upon it, and the smoky distance 
in which it is lost, are all devices to increase its 
majesty, to stimulate our curiosity, and to impress 
us with deeper awe. — It is suggested, in an ingeni- 
ous paper in a late number of the Edinburgh Mag- 
azine, that the general conception of this piece, and 
much of what is excellent in the manner of its exe- 
cution, have been borrowed from ' The Tragical 
History of Dr. Faustus,* of Marlow; f and a variety 
of passages are quoted, which the author considers 
as similar, and, in many respects superior to others 
in the poem before us. We cannot agree in the 
general terms of the conclusion: but there is no 
doubt a certain resemblance, both in some of the 



t [On reading this, Byron wrote from Venice : — 
"Jeffrey is very kind about Manfred, and defends 
its originality, which I did not know that anybody 



524 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



topics that are suggested, and in the cast of the dic- 
tion in which they are expressed. Thus, to induce 
Faustus to persist in his unlawful studies, he is told 
that the Spirits of the Elements will serve him, — 

' Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids, 
Shadowing more beauty in their ayrie browes. 
Than have the white breasts of the Queene of Love.' 

And again, when the amorous sorcerer commands 
Helen of Troy to revive again to be his paramour, 
he addresses her, on her first appearance, in these 
rapturous lines — 

' Was this the face that launcht a thousand ships, 
And burned the topless towers of Ilium? 
Sweet Helen! make me immortal with a kiss, 
Her lips suck forth my soule! — see where it flies. 
Come Helen, come give me my soule againe, 
Here will I dwell, for heaven is on that lip, 
And all is dross that is not Helena. 
O! thou art fairer than the evening ayre, 
Clad in the beauty of a thousand starres; 
More lovely than the monarch of the skyes, 
In wanton Arethusa's azure arms! ' 

The catastrophe, too, is bewailed in verses of great 
elegance and classical beauty — 

* Cut is the branch that might have growne full 
straight, 
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough 
That sometime grew within this learned man. 
Faustus is gone! — regard his hellish fall, 
Whose findful torture may exhort the wise. 
Only to wonder at unlawful things! ' 

But these, and many other smooth and fanciful 



had attacked. As to the germs of it, they may be 
found in the Journal which I sent to Mrs. Leigh, 
shortly before I left Switzerland. I have the whole 
scene of Manfred before me, as if it was but yester- 
day, and could point it out, spot by spot, torrent 
and all."] 



verses in this curious old drama, prove nothing, we 
think, against the originality of Manfred; for there 
is nothing to be found there of the pride, the ab- 
straction, and the heart-rooted misery in which that 
originaHty consists. Faustus is a vulgar sorcerer, 
tempted to sell his soul to the devil for the ordinary 
price of sensual pleasure, and earthly power and 
glory; and who shrinks and shudders in agony 
when the forfeit comes to be exacted. The style, 
too, of Marlow, though elegant and scholarlike, is 
weak and childish compared with the depth and 
force of much of Lord Byron; and the disgusting 
buffoonery and low farce of which his piece is prin- 
cipally made up, place it more in contrast, than in 
any terms of comparison, with that of his noble suc- 
cessor. In the tone and pitch of the composition, 
as well as in the character of the diction in the 
more solemn parts, Manfred reminds us much more 
of the ' Prometheus ' of ^schylus,* than of any 
more modern performance. The tremendous soli- 
tude of the principal person — the supernatural 
beings with whom alone he holds communion — the 
guilt — the firmness — the misery — are all points 
of resemblance, to which the grandeur of the poetic 
imagery only gives a more striking effect. The 
ohief differences are, that the subject of the Greek 
poet was sanctified and exalted by the established be- 
lief of his country, and that his terrors are nowhere 
tempered with the sweetness which breathes from 
so many passages of his English rival." — Jeffrey .\ 



* [" Of the 'Prometheus' of ^Eschylus I was 
passionately fond as a boy (it was one of the Greek 
plays we read thrice a year at Harrow) ; indeed, 
that and the ' Medea' were the only ones, except 
the ' Seven before Thebes,' which ever much 
pleased me. The Prometheus, if not exactly in my 
plan, has always been so much in my head, that I 
can easily conceive its influence over all or any thing 
that I have written ; but I deny Marlow and his 
progeny, and beg that you will do the same." — 
Byro7i's Letters, 1817.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE; 

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 

" Dux inquieti turbidus Adriae." — Horace. 



[On the original MS. sent from Ravenna, Byron wrote: — " Begun April 4th, 1820 — completed July 
i6th, 1820 — finished copying August i6th-i7th, 1820; the which copying makes ten times the toil of 
composing, considering the weather — thermometer 90 in the shade — and my domestic duties."] 



[Byron finished the composition of this tragedy on the 17th July, 1820. He at the time intended to 
keep it by him for six years before sending it to the press; but resolutions of this kind are, in modern 
days, very seldom adhered to. It was published in the end of the same year; and, to the poet's great 
disgust, and in spite of his urgent and repeated remonstrances, was produced on the stage of Drury Lane 
Theatre early in 1821. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 525 

Marino Faliero was, greatly to his satisfaction, commended warmly for the truth of its adhesion to 
Venetian history and manners, as well as the antique severity of its structure and language, by th;it emi- 
nent master of Italian and classical literature, Ugo Foscolo. Mr. GlHord also deliglited Inm by pro- 
nouncing it " English — genuine English." It was, however, little favored by the contemporary critics. 
There was, indeed, only one who spoke of it as quite worthy of Byron's reputation. " Nothing," said 
he, " has for a long time afforded us so much pleasure, as tlie rich promise of dramatic excellence un- 
folded in this production of Lord Byron. Without question, no such tragedy as Marino Faliero has 
appeared in English, since the day when Otway also was in-pircd to his masiei piece by the interests of a 
Ven uian story and a Venetian conspiracy, i he siory of which Lord Byron has possessed himself is, 
we think, by far the finer of the two, — and we say /iasiessed. because we believe he has adhered almost 
to the letter of the transactions as they really took place." — The language of the Edinburgh and Quar- 
terly Reviewers, Mr. Jeffrey and Bishop Heber, was in a far different strain. The former says — 

" Marino Faliero has undoubtedly considerable beauties, both diamatic and poeticil; and might liave 
made the fortune of any young aspirant for fame: but the name of iJyrjn raises expectations whiih are 
not so easily satisfied; and, judging of it by the lofty standard wliich he himself has established, v e are 
compelled to say, that we cannot but regard it as a failure, boih as a pjem and a play. The story, in so 
far as it is original in our drama, is extremely improbable, though, like most other very improbable sto- 
ri«s, derived from authentic sources: but, in the man, it is original; being, indeed, merely anothei ' Ven- 
ice Preserved,' and continually recalling, though ce.tainiy without eclipsing, the memory of tlie first. 
Except that Jafiier is driven to join the conspirators by the natural impulse of love and misery, and the 
Doge by a resentment so outrageous as to exclude all sympathy, — and tliat the disclosure, whicli is pro- 
duced by love in the old play, is here ascribed to mere friendship, — the general action and catastrophe 
of the two pieces are almost identical; while, with ree;ard to the writing and m.inagement, it must be 
owned that, if Lord Byron has most sense and vigor, Otway has by far the most passion and pathos; and 
that though his conspirators are better orators and reasoners than the gang of Pierre and Reynault, the 
tenderness of Belvidere is as much more touching, as it is more natural, than the stoical and self-satisfied 
decorum of Angiolina." 

The following is an extract from Bishop Heber's review in the Quarterly: — 

" Marino Faliero has, we believe, been pretty generally pronounced a failure by the public voice, and 
we see no reason to call for a revision of their sentence. It contains, beyond all doubt, many passages 
of commanding eloquence, and some of genuine poetry; and the scenes, more particularly, in which Lord 
Byron has neglected the absurd creed of his pseudo-Hellenic writers, are conceived and elaborated with 
great tragic effect and dexterity. But the subject is decidedly ill-chosen. In the main tissue of the plot, 
and in all the busiest and most interesting parts of it, it is, in fact, no more than another ' Venice Pre- 
served,' in which the author has had to contend (nor hns he contended successfully) with our re>:ol!ec- 
tions of a former and deservedly popular play on the same subject. And the only respect in which it 
differs is, that the Jaffier of Lord Byron's plot is drawn in to join the conspirators, not by the natural and 
intelligible motives of poverty, aggravated by the sufferings of a beloved wife, and a deep and well- 
grounded resentment of oppression, but by his outrageous anger for a private wrong of no very atrocious 
nature. The Doge of Venice, to chastise the vulgar libel of a foolish boy, attempts to overturn that re- 
public of which he is the first and most trusted servant; to massacre all of his ancient friends and fellow- 
soldiers, the magistracy and nobility of the land. With such a resentment as this, thus simply stated 
and taken singly, who ever sympathized, or who but Lord Byron would have expected in such a cause 
to be able to awaken sympathy? It is liitle to the purpose to say that this is all historically true. A 
thing may be true without being probable; and such a case of idiosyncrasy as is implied in a resentment 
so sudden and extravagant, is no more a fitting subject for the poet, than an animal with two heads would 
be for an artist of a different description." 

The following extract from a letter of January, 1821, will show the author's own estimate of the piece 
thus criticized. After repeating his hope, that no manager would be so audacious as to trample on his 
feelings by producing it on the stage, he thus proceeds: — 

" It is too regular — the time, twenty-four hours — the change of place not frequent — nothing inelo- 
dranratic — no surprises — no starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities ' for tossing their heads aiid kicking 
their heels ' — and no love, the grand ingredient of a modern play. I am persuaded that a great tragedy 
is not to be produced by following the old dramatis'ts — who are full of gross faults, pardoned o.dy for the 
beauty of their language, — but by writing naturally and regularly, and producing regular traueiiies, 
like the Greeks; but not in imitation, — merely the outline of their conduct, adapted to our own times 
and circumstances, and of course 710 chorus. You will laugh, and say, ' Why don't you do so.'" I h.;ve, 
you see, tried a sketch in Marino Faliero; but many people think my talent * essentially undramatic^ 
and I am not at all clear that they are not right. If Marino Faliero don't fail — in the perusal — 1 shall, 
perhaps, try again (but not for the stage) ; and as I think that love is not the principal passion for tragedy 
(and yet most of ours turn upon it), you will not find me a popular writer. Unless it is Xo^Qjurions, 
criminal, and hapless, it ought not to make a tragic subject. When it is melting and maudlin, it does, 
but it ought not to do; it is then for the gallery and second price boxes. If you want to have a notion 
of what I am trying, take up a translation of any of the Greek tragedians. If I said the original, it 
would be an impudent presumption of mine; but the translations are so inferior to the originals, that 1 
think I may risk it. Then judge of the ' simplicity of plot,' and do not judge me by your old mad drama- 
tists; which is like drinking usquebaugh, and then proving a foimlain. Vet, after all, I suppose you do 
not mean that spirits is a nobler element than a clear spring bubbling up in the sun? and this I take to 
be the difference between the Greeks and those turbid mountebanks — always excepting Ben Jonson, 
who was a scholar and a classic. Or, take up a translation of Alfieri, and tr\' the interest, etc. of these 
my new attempts in the old line, by him in English; and then tcU me fairly your opinion. But don't 



526 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 

measure me by your own old or new tailor's yard. Nothing so easy as intricate confusion of plot and 
rant. Mrs. Centlivre, in comedj', has ten times the bustle of Congreve; but are they to be compared? 
and yet she drove Congreve from the theatre." 

Again, February 16, he thus writes: — 

" You say the Doge will not be popular; did I ever write for popularity? I defy you to show a work 
of mine (except a tale or two) of a popular style or complexion. It appears to me that there is room for 
a different style of the drama; neither a servile following of the old drama, which is a grossly errone:)u,s 
one, nor yet too French, like those who succeeded the older writers. It appears to me that good English, 
and a severer approach to the rules, might cotnbine something not dishonorable to our literature. I have 
also attempted to make a play without love; and there are neither rings, nor mistakes, nor starts, nor 
outrageous canting villains, nor melodrama in it. All this will prevent its popularity, but does not per- 
suade me that it is therefore faulty. Whatever fault it has will arise from deficiency in the conduct, 
rather than in the conception, which is simple and severe. 

■'Reproach is useless always, and irritating — but my feelings were very much hurt, to be dragged 
like a gladiaior to the f ite of a gladiator by that ' reiiariics,' Mr. Elliston. As to his defence and offers 
of compen-^ation, what is all this to the purpose? It is like Louis XIV. who insisted upon buying at any 
price Algernon Sydney's horse, and, on his refusal, on taking it by force, Sydney shot his horse. I could 
not shoot my tragedy, but I would have flung it into the fire rather than have had it represented " 

The poet originally designed to inscribe this tragedy to his friend, Mr. Douglas Kinnaird; but the 
dedication he drew up remained in MS. till after the poet's death. It is in these words: — 

•' To THE Honorable Douglas Kinnaird. 

"My dear Douglas, — I dedicate to you the following tragedy, rather on account of your good 
opinion of it, than from any notion of my own that it may be worthy of your acceptance. But if its 
merits were ten times greater than they possibly can be, this offering woidd still be a very inadequate 
acknowledgment of the active and steady friendship with which, for a series of years, you have honored 

" Your obliged and affectionate friend, 

" Byron." 

At another moment, the poet resolved to dedicate the tragedy to Goethe, whose praises of" Manfred" 
had highly delighted him; but this dedication shared the fate of that to Mr. Kinnaird: — it did not reach 
the hands of Goethe till 1831, when it was presented to him at Weimar, by Mr. Murray, jun.; nor 
was it printed at all, imtil Moore included it in his Memoirs of Byron. In doing so, he omitted some 
passages, which, the MS. having since been lost, cannot be restored. " It is written," he says, " in the 
poet's most whimsical and mocking mood; and the unmeasured severity poured out in it upon the two 
favorite objects of his wrath and ridicule, compels me to deprive the reader of some of its most amusing 
passages." 

Wordsworth and Southey were the persons ridiculed in these suppressed passages. 

" To B.\RON Goethe,' etc. etc. etc. 

" Sir, — In the Appendix to an English work lately translated into German and published at Leipsic, 
a judgment of yours upon English poetry is quoted as follows: 'That in English poetry, great genius, 
universal power, a feeling of profundity, with suflkient tenderness and force, are to be found; but that 
altogether these do not constitute poets,' etc. etc. 

" 1 regret to see a great man falling into a great mistake. This opinion of yours only proves, that the 
*■ Dictiojiary of ten thousand living English Authors' has not been translated into German. You 
will have read in your friend Schlegel's version, the dialogue in Macbeth — 

' There are ten thousaiid ! 
Macbeth, Geese, villain? 
Answer- Authors, sir.' 

Now, of these ' ten thousand authors,' there are actually nineteen hundred and eighty-seven poets, all 
alive at this moment, whatever their works may be, as their booksellers well know: and amongst these 
there are several who possess a far greater reputation than mine, although considerably less than yours. 
It is owing to this neglect on the part of your German translators that you are not aware of the works of 
******** 

" There is also another, named ********* 

" I mention these poets by way of sample to enlighten you. They form but two bricks of our Babel 
(Windsor bricks, by the way), but may serve for a specimen of the building. 

" It is, moreover, asserted that ' the predominant character of the whole body of the present Er.glish 
poetry is a disgust and contempt for life.' But 1 rather suspect that, by one single work o{ prose, you 
yourself have excited a greater contempt for life, than all the English volumes of poesy that ever were 
written. Madame de .St.iel says, that ' Werther has occasioned more suicides than the most beautiful 
woman; 'and I really believe that he has put more individuals out of this world than Napoleon himself, — 
except in the way of his profession. Perhaps, Illustrious Sir, the acrimonious judgment passed by a 
celebrated northern jor.rna! upon you in particular, and the Germans in general, has rather indisposed 
you t i-.vards English poetry as well as criticism. But you must not regard our critics, who are at bottom 

1 [Goethe was ennobled, having the Vo7i prefixed to his name, but never received the title of Baron.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 527 

good-natured fellows, considering their two pr-)fessions, — taking up the law in court, and laying it down 
out of it. No one can more lanie.u tlieir hasty and unfair judgment, in your particular, than 1 do; and 
I so expressed myself to your friend Schlegel, in [f!r6, at Coppet. 

" la behalf of my ' ten thousand ' living brethren, and of myself, I have thus far taken notice of an 
opinion expressed with regard to ' English poetry' in general, and which merited notice, because it was 

YOUKS. 

"My principal object in addressing you was to testify my sincere respect and admiration of a man, 
who, for half a century, has led the literature of a great nation, and will go down to posterity as the first 
literary character of his age. 

" You liave been fortunate, Sir, not only in the writings which have illustrated your name, but in the 
name itself, as being sufficiently musical for the articulation of posterity. In this you have the advan- 
tage of some of your countrymen, whose names would perhaps be immortal also — if anybody couia 
pronotmce them. 

" It may, perhaps, be supposed, by this apparent tone of levity, that I am wanting in intentional 
respect towards you; but this will be a mistake: I am always flippant in prose. Considering ynu, as I 
really and warmly do, in common with all your own, and with most other nations, to be by far the fir^t 
literary character which has existed in Europe since the death of Voltaire, I felt, and feci, dc-iroiis lo 
inscribe to you the following work, — not as being either a tragedy or 2, poem, (for I rannMt pronounce 
upon its pretensions to be either one or the other, or both, or neither,) but as a mark of esteem and 
admiration from a foreigner to the man who has been hailed in (Germany 'the GREAT Goethe.' 

" I have the honor to be, with the truest respect, 

" Your most obedient and very humble servant, 

" Ravenna, S*"^* 14^. 1820. " Bvron, 

" P. S. I perceive that in Germany, as well as in Italy, there is a great struggle about what they call 
' Classical' and ' Roinnniic,' — terms which were not subjects of classification in England, at least when 
I left it four or five years ago. Some of the English scribblers, it is true, abused Pope and Swift, but the 
reason was, that they themf^elves did not know how to write either prose or verse; but nobody thought 
them worth making a sect of. Perhaps there may be something of the kind sprung up lately, but I have 
not heard much about it, and it would be such bad taste that I shall be very sorry to believe it." 

Goethe was much gratified with this token of Byron's admiration. 



PREFACE. 



The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of the most remarkable events in the annals of the 
most singular government, city, and people of modern history. It occurred in the year 1355. Every thing 
about Venice is, or was, extraordinary — her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like a romance. 
The story of this Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed in the " Lives of the 
Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which is given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly related, and is per- 
haps more dramatic in itself than any scenes which can be founded upon the subject. 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents and of courage. I find him commaiuler-i i-chief 
of the land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the King of Hungary and his army of eighty thou- 
sand men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged at the same time in check; an exploit to 
which I know none similar in history, except that of Caesar at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgr^d-. 
He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassa- 
dor at Genoa and Rome, — at which last he received the news of his election to the dukedom; his absence 
being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was apprised of his predecessor's death and his 
own succession at the same moment. But he appears to have been of an ungovernable temper. A story 
is told by Sanuto, of his having, many years before, when podesta and captain at Treviso, boxed the 
ears of the bishop, who was somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest Sanuto " saddles 
him with a judgment," as Thwackum did Square; but he does not tell us whether he was punished or 
rebuked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to have been 
afterwards at peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested with the fief of 
Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo Count-bishop of Ceneda. 
For these facts my authorities are Sanuto, Vettor Sandl, Andrea Navagero, and the account of the siege 
of Zara, first published by the indefatigable Abate Morelli, in his " MonumentI Venezlani di varia Letter- 
atura," printed in 1796, all of which I have looked over in the original language. The moderns, Daii 



528 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to 
Kis Jealousy; but I find this nowhere asserted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, 

th.it " Alti-i scnsserj che dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doye siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar con 

viclenza," etc. etc. ; but this appears to have been by no means the general opinion, nor is it alluded to 
by Sanuto or by Navagero; and Sandi liimscir adds, a moment after, that " per altre Veneziane memorie 
traspiri, che non il solo desidcrio di vendetta lo dispose alia congiura, ma anche la innata abituale ambi- 
zijn sua, per cui anelava a farsi principe independente." The first motive appears to have been excited 
by the gross affront of the words written by Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and inade- 
quate sentence of the Forty on the offender, who was one of their " tre Capi." The attentions of Steno 
hi nself appear to have been directed towards one of her damsels, and not to the " Dogaressa" herself, 
against whose fame not the slightest insinuation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, and re- 
marked for her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an assertion), that the 
Doge was actuated by jealousy of his wife; but rather by respect for her, and for his own honor, war- 
ranted by his past services and present dignity. 

I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of 
Italy. His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old men and young wives, and wonder- 
ing at so great an effect from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an observer of mankind as the 
author of Zeluco could wonder at this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. 
Masham's gown deprived the Duke of Marlborough of his command, and led to the inglorious peace of 
Utrecht — that Louis XIV. was plunged into the most desolating wars, because his minister was nettled 
at his finding fault with a window, and wished to give him another occupation — that Helen lost Troy — 
that Lucretia expelled the Tarquins from Rome — and that Cava brought the Moors to Spain — that on 
insulted husband led the Gauls to Clusium, and thence to Rome — that a single verse of Frederick II. of 
Prussia on the Abb^ de Bernis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Rosbach i — 
that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with Mac Murchad conducted the English to the slavery of Ireland -- 
that a personal pique between Maria Antoinette and the Duke of Orleans precipitated the first expulsion 
of the Bourbons — and, not to multiply instances, that Commodus, Domitian, and Caligula fell victims 
not to their public tyranny, but to private vengeance — and that an order to make Cromwell disembark 
from the ship in which he would have sailed to America destroyed both king and commonwealth. After 
these instances, on the least reflection, it is indeed extraordinary in Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a 
mnn used to command, who had served and swayed in the most important offices, should fiercely resent, 
ill a fi rce age, an unpunished affront, the grossest that can be offered to a man, be he prince or peasant. 
The age of Faliero is little to the purpose, unless to favor it — 

" The young man's wrath is like straw on fire, 
Bui like red-hot steel is the old man's ire" 

" Young men soon give and soon forget affronts, 
Old age is slow at both." 

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical: — " Tale fu il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua 
nascita, la sua eta, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I 
suji talcnti ^cr lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua capacita sperimentata ne' governi e 
ncUe ambasciate, gli avevano acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadini, ed avevano uniti i suft"ragj per 
1 olbcarlo alia testa della republica. Innalzato ad un grado che terminava gloriosamente la sua vita, il 
lisentimento di lui' ingiuria leggiera insinuo nel suo cuore tal veleno, che bastb a corrompere le aiuicl.e 
sue qualita, e a condurlo al termine dei scellerati; serio esempio, che ^rova tion esservi eta, in cui la 

' [The Abbe's biographer denies the correctness of this statement. — " Quelques ecrivains," he says, 
" qui trouvaient sans doute piquant d'attribuer de grands effets a de petites causes, ont pretendus que I'Abbe 
avait insiste dans le consiul pour faire declarer ia guerre a la Prusse, par ressentiment contre Frederic et 
uour venger sa vanite poetique, luunilie par le vers du monarque bel-esprit et poete — 

' Evitez de Bernis la sterile abondance.' 

Je ne m'amuserai point a refuter cette opinion ridicule; elle tombe par le fail, si I'abb^, comme dit Duclos, 
;e declara an contraire, clans le conseil, constamment pour I'aliiance avec la Prusse, contre le sentimen? 
oeme d.e Lgu'S XV, et de Madame de Pompadour." — Bib. Univ-I 



MARINO FAIJERO, DOGE OF VENTCE. 529 



frudetiza unuiua si'/t sic7(ra, c che nelV uotno restano sempre passioui capaci a disonorarlo, 
quamio non invigili sopra se stesso.^"^ 

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero begged his life? I have searched the chroniclers, and 
find nothing of the kind; it is true that he avowed all. He was conducted to the place of torture, but 
there is no mention made of any application for mercy on his part; and the very circumstance of their 
liavmg taken him to the rack seems to argue any thing but his having shown a want of firmness, which 
would doubtless have been also mentioned by those minute historians, who by no means favor him: 
such, indeed, would be contrary to his character as a soldier, to the age in which he lived, and at which 
he died, as it is to the truth of history. I know no justification, at any distance of time, for calumni- 
ating an historical character: surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortunate; and they who 
have died upon a scaflTold have generally had faults enough of their own, without attributing to them 
that which the very incurring of the perils which conducted them to their violent death renders, of all 
others, the most improbable. The black veil which is painted over the place of Marino Faliero amongst 
the Doges, and the Giants' Staircase where he was crowned, and discrowned, and decapitated, struck 
forcibly upon my imagination; as did his fierj' character and strange story. I went, in 1819, in search 
of his tomb more than once to the church San Giovanni e San Paolo; and, as I was standing before the 
monument of another family, a priest came up to me and said, " I can show you finer monuments than 
that." I told him that I was in search of that of the Faliero family, and particularly of the Doge 
Marino's. "Oh," said he, " I will show it you; " and conducting me to the outside, pointed out a sar- 
cophagus in the wall with an illegible inscription. He said that it had been in a convent adjoining, but 
was removed after the French came, and placed in its present situation; that he had seen the tomb 
opened at its removal; there were still some bones remaining, but no positive vestige of the decapi- 
tation. The equestrian statue, of which I have made mention in the third act, as before that church, is 
not, however, of a Faliero, but of some other now obsolete warrior, although of a later date. There were 
two other Doges of this family prior to Marino; Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara in 1117 (where his 
descendant afterwards conquered the Huns), and Vital Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, 
originally from Fano, was of the most illustrious in blood and wealth in the city of once the most 
wealthy and stilL the most ancient families in Europe. The length 1 have gone into on this subject will 
show the interest I have taken in it. Whether I have succeeded or not in the tragedy, I have at least 
transferred into our language an historical fact worthy of commemoration. 

It is now four years that I have meditated this work; and before I had sufficiently examined the 
records, I was rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy in Faliero.- But, perceiving no foun- 
dation for this in historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted passion in the drama, I have 
given it a more historical form. I was, besides, well advised by the late Matthew Lewis on that point, 
in talking with him of my intention at Venice in 1817. " If you make him jealous," said he, " recollect 
that you have to contend with established writers, to say nothing of Shakspeare, and an exhausted sub- 
ject; — stick to the old fiery Doge's natural character, which will bear you out, if properly drawn; and 
make your plot as regular as you can." Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the same counsel. 
How far I have followed these instructions, or whether they have availed me, is not for me to decide. 
I have had no view to the stage; in its present state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object of ambition; 
besides, I have been too much behind the scenes to have thought it so at any time.3 And I cannot con- 
ceive any man of irritable feeling putting himself at the mercies of an audience. The sneering reader, 
and the loud critic, and the tart review, are scattered and distant calamities; but the trampling of an 

^ Laugier, Hist, de la Rdpub. de Venise, Italian translation, vol. iv. p. 30. 

- [In February, 1817, Byron wrote to Mr. Murray — " Look into Dr. Moore's 'View of Italy' for me: 
in one of the volumes you will find an account of the Doge Valieio (it ought to be Falieri) and his con- 
spiracy, or the motives of it. Get it transcribed for me, and send it in a letter to me soon. I want it, 
and cannot find so good an account of that business here: though the veiled patriot, and the place where 
he was crowned, and afterwards decapitated, still exist and are shown. I have searched all their his- 
tories; but the policy of the old aristocracy make their writers silent on his 'motives, which were a private 
grievance against one of the patricians. I mean to write a tragedy on the subject, which appears to me 
very dramatic; an old man, jealous, and conspiring against the state, of which he was actually reigning 
chief. The last circumstance makes it the most remarkable, and only fact of the kind, in all history ol 
all nations."] 

3 [MS. "It is like being at the whole process of a woman's toilet — it disenchants."] 



530 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



intelligent or of an ignorant audience on a production which, be it good or bad, has been a mental labor 
to the writer, is a palpable and immediate grievance, heightened by a man's doubt of their competency 
to judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence in electing them his judges. Were I capable of writing 
a play which could be deemed stage-worthy, success would give me no pleasure, and failure great pain. 
It is for this reason that, even during the time of being one of the committee of one of the theatres, I 
never made the attempt, and never will.^ But surely there is dramatic power somewhere, where Joanna 
Baillie, and Millman, and John Wilson exist. The " City of the Plague " and the " Fall of Jerusalem" 
are full of the best " materiel" for tragedy that has been seen since Horace Walpole, except passages 
of Ethwald and De Montfort. It is the fashion to underate Horace Walpole; firstly, because he was a 
nobleman, and secondly, because he was a gentleman; but, to say nothing of the composition of his 
incomparable letters, and of the Castle of Otranto, he is the " Ultimus Romanorum," the author of the 
Mysterious Mother, a tragedy of the highest order, and not a puling love-play. He is the father of the 
first romance and of the last tragedy in our language, and surely worthy of a higher place than any living 
writer, be he who he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot to mention, that the desire of preserving, though 
still too remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity, which is the approach of the English 
theatrical compositions, permits, has induced me to represent the conspiracy as already formed, and the 
Doge acceding to it; whereas, in fact, it was of his own preparation and that of Israel Bertuccio. The 
other characters (except that of the Duchess), incidents, and almost the time, which was wonderfully 
short for such a design in real life, are stricdy historical, except that all the consultations took place in 
the palace. Had I followed this, the unity would have been better preserved; but I wished to produce 
the Doge in the full assembly of the conspirators, instead of monotonously placing him always in dia- 
logue with the same individuals. ^ For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix. 

1 While_ I was in the sub-committee of Drury Lane Theatre, I can vouch for my colleagues, and I hope 
for myself, that we did our best to bring back the legitimate drama. I tried what I could to get " De 
Montfort" revived, but in vain, and equally in vain in favor of Sotheby's " Ivan," which was thought an 
acting play; and 1 endeavored also to wake Mr. Coleridge to write a tragedy. Those who are not in the 
secret will hardly believe that the " School for Scandal" is the play which has brought least niotiey, 
averaging the number of times it_ has been acted since its production; so Manager Dibdin assured me. 
Of what has occurred since Maturin's " Bertram" I am not aware; so that I may be traducing, through 
ignorance, some excellent new writers: if so, I beg their pardon. I have been absent from England 
nearly hve years, and, till last year, I never read an English newspaper since my departure, and am now 
only aware of theatrical matters through the medium of the Parisian Gazette of Galignani, and only for 
the last twelve months. Let me then deprecate all offence to tragic or comic writers, to whom I wish 
well, and of whom I know nothing. The long complaints of the actual state of the drama arise, however, 
from no fault of the performers. I can conceive nothing better than Keiuble, Cooke, and Kean in their 
very different manners, or than Elliston in genile/nau's comedy, and in some parts of tragedy. Miss 
O'Neill I never saw, having made and kept a determination to see nothing which should divide or disturb 
my recollection of Siddons. Siddons and Kemble were the ideal of tragic action; I never saw any thing 
at all resembling them even \n persoti : for this reason, we shall never see again Coriolanus or Macbeth. 
When Kean is blamed for want of dignity, we should remember that it is a grace, and not an art, and 
not to be attained by study. In all, 7tot SUPER-natural parts, he is perfect; even his very defects belong, 
or seem to belong, to the parts themselves, and appear truer to nature. But of Kemble we may say, 
with reference to his acting, what the Cardinal de Retz said of the Marquis of Montrose, " that he was 
the only man he ever saw who reminded him of the heroes of Plutarch." 

2 [" vVe cannot conceive a greater instance of the efficacy of system to blind the most acute percep- 
tion, than the fact that Lord Byron, in works exclusively intended for the closet, has piqued himself on 
the observance of rules which are evidently, off the stage, a matter of perfect indifference. The only 
object of adhering to the unities is to preserve the illusion of the scene. To the reader they are obviously 
useless." — Heber.'] 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 
Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge. 
LlONI, a Patrician and Senator. 



Benintende, Chief of the Council of 

Ten. 
Michel Steno, One of the three Capi of the 

Forty. 



MAklMd l^ALiERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



531 



Israel Bertuccio, 
of the Arsenal, 

Philip Calendaro, 

Dagolino, 

Bertram. 



Chief 



Conspirators. 



Signor of the Night, 

First Citizen. 
Second Citizen. 
Third Citizen. 



f 

(.'' 



Signor e di Notte" one 
f the Officers belong- 
ifig to the Republic. 



PrF7M^n ^^' 1 Officers belonging to the Ducal 
EllTlSTA. / ^-^-- 

Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council 
of Ten, The Giunta, etc. etc. 

WOMEN. 
Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
Marianna, her Friend. 
Female Attendants, etc. 



Scene Venice — in the year 1355. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — An Antechamber in the Ducal 
Palace. 

PlETRO speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

Pie. Is not the messenger returned ? 

Bat. Not yet ; 

I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
But still the Signory is deep in council. 
And long debate on Steno's accusation. 

Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 

Bat. How bears he 

These moments of suspense ? 

Pie. With struggling patience 

Placed at the ducal table, covered o'er 
"With all the apparel of the state ; petitions, 
Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, re- 
ports, 
He sits as rapt in duty; but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
Or aught that intimates a coming step. 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders. 
And he will start up from his chair, then 

pause, 
And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
For the last hour he has not turned a leaf. 

Bat. 'Tis said he is much moved, — and 
doubtless 'twas 
Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 

Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno's a patrician. 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

Bat. Then you think 

He will not be judged hardly ? 

Pie. 'Twere enough 

He be judged justly ; but 'tis not for us 
To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 

Bat. And here it comes. — What news, 
Vincenzo ? 

Enter ViNCENZO. 

Vin. 'Tis 

Decided; but as yet his doom's unknown: 
1 saw the president in act to seal 



The parchment which will bear the Forty's 

judgment 
Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE II.— The Ducal Chamber. 

Marino Faliero, Doge ; and his Nephew, 
Bertuccio Faliero. 

Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you 

justice. 
Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori i did, 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 
Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him ; 
such an act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 
Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know you 
not the Forty ? 
But we shall see anon. 

Ber. F. {addressing ViNCENZO, then e?iter- 
ing) . How now — what tidings ? 

Vin. I am charged to tell his highness that 
the court 
Has passed its resolution, and that, soon 
As thedueformsofjudgment are gone through, 
The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
His acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes — 

They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble 
Sentence is passed, you say ? 

Vin. It is, your highness: 

The president was sealing it, when I 
Was called in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due 
Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, both in one united. 



1 [The Avogadori, three in number, were the 
conductors of criminal prosecutions on the part of 
the state; and no act of the councils was valid, un- 
less sanctioned by the presence of one of them.] 



532 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act I. 



Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you 
have perceived, 
Of their decision ? 

Vin. No, my lord ; you know 

The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 
Ber. F. True ; but there still is something 
given to guess. 
Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would 

catch at ; 
A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
The Forty are but men — most worthy men. 
And wise, and just, and cautious — this I 

grant — 
And secret as the grave to which they doom 
The guilty ; but with all this, in their aspects — 
At least in some, the juniors oi the number — 
A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
Would read the sentence ere it was pro- 
nounced. 
Vin. My lord, I came away upon the mo- 
ment. 
And had no leisure to take note of that 
Which passed among the judges, even in 

seeming ; 
My station near the accused too, Michel Steno, 

Made ine 

Doge, {abruptly). And how looked he? 

deliver that. 
Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood re- 
signed 
To the decree, whate'er it were : — but.lo ! 
It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 
Enter the SECRETARY of the Forty. 
Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence passed on Michel Steno, born 
Patrician, and arraigned upon the charge 
Contained, together with its penalty, 
Within the rescript which I now present. 
Doge. Retire, and wait without. 

{Exeunt SECRETARY and ViNCENZO. 
Take thou this paper. 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes ; 
I cannot fix them. 

Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 

Why do you tremble thus? — Nay, doubt not, 

all 
Will be as could be wished. 

Doge. Say on. 

Ber. F. {reading). "Decreed 

In council, without one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confession. 
Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 

The following words " i 

Doge. Would'st thou repeat them -? 



1 ["Marino Faliero dalla bella inoglie — altri la 
gode, ed egli la mantiene." — Sanuto. 



Would'st thou VQi^eaX them — thou, a. Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonor of our house. 
Dishonored in its chief — that chief the prince 
Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will 
obey — 
{Reads.) "That Michel Steno be detained a 

month 
In close arrest." 

Doge. Proceed. 

Ber. F. My lord, 'tis finished. 

Doge. How, say you ? — finished! Do I 
dream ? — 'tis false — 
Give me the paper — {Snatches the paper and 

reads.) — " 'Tis decreed in council 
That Michel Steno " Nephew, thine arm ! 

Ber. F. Nay, 

Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncalled 

for — 
Let me seek some assistance. 

Doge. Stop, sir — Stir not — . 

'Tis past. 

Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight tor the offence — 
It is not honorable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects ; but 'tis not 
Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
Who, seeing that true justice is withheld. 
Will now take up the cause they once de- 
clined. 
And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you 

stand 
So fixed ? You heed me not : — I pray you, 
hear me ! 

Doge {dashing doivn the ducal bonnet, and 
offering to trample upon it, exclaims, as 
he is withheld by his nephew). 
Oh ! that the Saracen were in Saint Mark's ! 
Thus would 1 do him homage. 

Ber. F. For the sake 
Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 

Doge. Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
Were ranged around the palace ! 

Ber. F. 'Tis not well 

In Venice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Venice' Duke ! 

Who now is Duke in Venice ? let me see him, 
That he may do me right. 

Ber. F. If you forget 

Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
The Duke of Venice 

Doge {interrupting him). There is no such 
thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by- 
word : 



SCENE II. J 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



533 



The most despised, wronged, outraged, help- 
less wretch. 
Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one. 
May win it from another kinder heart ; 
But he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he's a slave — 
.And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us : — where is our redress ? 

Ber. F. I'he law, my prince ? 

Doge {^interrupting him). You see what it 
has done — 
I asked no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
I called no judges but those named by law^ — 
As sovereign, I appealed unto my subjects, 
The verysubjectswho had made me sovereign, 
And gave me thus a double right to he so. 
The rights of place and choice, of birth and 

service, 
Honors and years, these scars, these hoary 

hairs. 
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years. 
Were weighed i' the balance, 'gainst the foul- 
est stain. 
The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting ! 
And this is to borne 1 

Ber. F. I say not that : — 

In case your fresh appeal should be rejected. 
We will find other means to make all even. 
Doge. Appeal again ! art thou my brother's 
son ? 
A scion of the house of Falicro ? 
The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to 

Venice ? 
But thou say'st well — we must be humble 
now. 
Ber. F. My princely uncle ! you are too 
much moved : — 
I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
Left without fittmg punishment : but still 
This fury doth exceed the provocation, 
Or any provocation : if we are wronged. 
We will askjusuce; if it be denied. 
We'll take it ; but may do all this in calm- 
ness — 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Si- 
lence. 
I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
I love our house, I honor you, its chief, 
Tlie guardian of my youth, and its instructor — 
But though I understand your grief, and enter 
In part of your disdain, it doth appall me 
To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 
Doge. I tell thee — must I tell thee — what 
thv father 



Would have required no words to compre- 
hend ? 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no 

soul — 
No pride — no passion — no deep sense of 
honor ? 
Ber. F. 'Tis the first time that honor has 
been doubted, 
And were the last, from any other sceptic. 
Doge, You know the full offence of this 
born villain, 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
W^ho threw his sting into a poisonous libel. 
And on the honor of — Oh God ! — my wife, 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honor, 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul com- 
ments, 
And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
While sneering nobles, in more polished guise, 
Whispered the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous 

wittol. 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonor. 
Ber. F. But still it was a lie — you knew 
it false. 
And so did all men. 

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 

Said, " Caesar's wife must not even be sus- 
pected," 
And put her from him. 

Ber. F. True — but in those days 

Doge. What is it that a Roman would not 
suffer. 
That a Venetian prince must bear ? Old Dan- 

dolo 
Refused the diadem of all the Caesars, 
And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 
Because 'tis now degraded. 
Ber. F. 'Tis even so. 

Doge. It is — it is ; — I did not visit on 
The innocent creature thus most vilely slan- 
dered 
Because she took an old man for her lord, 
For that he had been long her father's friend 
And patron of her house, as if there were 
No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
Visit the villain's infamy on her. 
But craved my country's justice on his head, 
The justice due unto the humblest being 
Who hath a wife wiiose faith is sweet to him, 
Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 
Who hath a name whose honor's all to him, 
When these are tinted by the accursing breath 
Of calumny and scorn. 

Ber. F. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 
Doge. Death ! Was I not the sovereign 
of the state — 
Insuhed on his very throne, and made 



534 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act I. 



A mockery to the meji who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured as a husband ? scorned 
As man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 
Was not offence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 
Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
StampeT'the same brand upon a peasant's 

stool, 
His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carl 
Had stabbed him on the instant. 

Ber. F. Do not doubt it, 

He shall not live till sunset — leave to me 
The means, and calm yourself. 

Doge. Hold, nephew: this 

Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 

Ber. F. What mean you ? is not the of- 
fence redoubled 
By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunished ? 

Doge. It is redoubled, but not now bv him : 
The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
We must obey the Forty. 

Ber. F. Obey them ! 

Who have f )rgot their duty to the sovereign ? 

Doge. Why yes; — boy, you perceive it 
then at last : 
Whether as fellow-citizen who sues 
For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 
They have defrauded me of both my rights 
(For here the sovereign is a citizen) ; 
But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you 
left to me 
The mode and means : if you had calmly heard 

me, 
I never meant this miscreant should escape, 
But wished you to suppress such gusts of pas- 
sion, 
That we more surely might devise together 
His taking off. 

Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 

At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices asked a single victim. 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

Ber. F. Your wishes are my law : and yet 
I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
'I'he honor of our house must ever be. 

Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and 
place of proof, 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

Ber. F. Why that's my uncle ! 

The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of him- 
self! 
I wondered to perceive you so forget 



All prudence in your fury at these years, 

Although the cause 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 

Forget it not : — When you he down to rest, 
Let It be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand betv/een 
The sun and you, as an ill-omened cloud 
Upon a summer-day of festival : 
So will it stand to me; — but speak not, stir 

not, — 
Leave all to me; — we shall have much to 

do. 
And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
'Tis fit I were alone. 

Ber. F. {taking up and placing the ducal 
bonnet on the table) . Ere I depart, 
I pray you to resume what you have spurned, 
Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
And now I take my leave, imploring you 
In all things to rely upon my duty 
As doth become your near and faithful kins- 
man. 
And not less loyal citizen and subject. 

\^Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 
Doge {solus) . Adieu, my worthy nephew. — 
Hollow bauble ! [ Takuigupthe ducal cap. 
Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
Without investing the insulted brow 
With the all-swaying majesty of kings; 
Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, 
Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. 

\Puts it on. 
How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my 

temples 
Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
Could I not turn thee to a diadem ? 
Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
Making the people nothing, and the prince 
A pageant ? In my life I have achieved 
Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them, 
Who thus repay me ! — Can I not requite them ? 
Oh for one year ! Oh but for even a day 
Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 
I would have dashed amongst them, asking few 
In aid to overthrow these swoln patricians; 
But now I must look round for other hands 
To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plan 
In such a sort as will not leave the task 
Herculean, though as yet 'tis but a chaos 
Of darkly brooding thoughts: my fancy is 
In her first work, more nearly to the light 
Holding the sleeping images nf things 
For the selection of the pausing judgment. — 
The troops are few in 

Eftter VINCENZO. 

Vin. There is one without 

Craves audience of your highness. 

Doge. I'm unwell-^ 

I can see no one, not even a patrician — 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VEN/Cr. 



53S 



Let him refer his business to the council. 

yin. My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
It cannot much import — he's a plebeian, 
The master of a galley, I believe. 

Doog. How! did you say the patron of a 

giiUey ? 
That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

[Exit ViNCENZO. 
Doge {solus) . This patron may be sounded ; 

I will try him. 
I know the people to be discontented : 
They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse 

day, 
When Genoa conquered : they have further 

cause. 
Since they are nothing in the state, and in 
The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 
To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasuie. 
The troops have long arrears of pay, oft prom- 
ised, 
And murmur deeply — any hope of change 
Will draw them forward : they shall pay 

themselves 
With plunder: — but the priests — I doubt 

the priesthood 
Will not be with us ; they have hated me 
Since that rash hour, when, maddened with 

the drone, 
I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso.i 
Quickening his holy march ; yet, ne'ertheless 
They may be won, at least their chief at Rome, 
By some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
All things, I must be speedy : at my hour 
Of twilight little light of life remains. 
Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 
Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this, 
Better that sixty of my four-score years 
Had been already where — how soon, I care 

not — 
The whole must be extinguished ; — better that 
They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 
The thing these arch-oppressors fain would 

make me. 
Let me consider — of efficient troops 
Tliere are three thousand posted at 

E//^er ViNCENZO and ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

F/n. May it please 

Your highness, the same patron whom I spake 

of 
Is here to crave your patience. 

Do^'e. Leave the chamber, 

Vincenzo. — [Exii ViNCENZO. 

Sir, you may advance — what would you ? 

/. Ber. Redress. 



* An historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives 
of the Doges. — [" Sanuto says that Heaven took 
away his senses for this buffet, and induced him to 
conspire: — ' Per6 fu permesso che il F^liero per- 
dette I'inteiletto,' " ^Xc.^- Byron's Letters.^ 



Doge. Of whom ? 

/. Ber. Of God and of the Doge. 

Doge. Alas ! my fnend, you seek it of the 
twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. 

/. Jier. 'Twcre in vain ; 

For he who injured me is one of them. 

Doge. There's blood upon thy face — how 
came it there ? 

/. Ber. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've 
shed for Venice, 
But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
A nol)le smote me. 

Doge. Doth he live ? 

/, Ber. Not long — 

B:it for the hope I had and have, that you, 
My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not to protect himself; — if not — 
I say no more. 

Doge. But something you would do — 

Is it noi; so ? 

/. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 

Doge. Why so is he who smote you. 

/. Ber. He is called so; 

Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one. 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may 

turn — 
'Tis said the worm will. 

Doge. Say — his name and lineage ? 

/. Ber. Barbaro. 

Doge. What was the cause ? or the pre- 
text ? 

/. Ber. I am the chief of the ars*nal,i 
employed 
At present in repairing certain galleys 
But roughly used by the Genoese hist yea?. 
Tliis morning coines the noble Barbaro 
Full of reproof, because our artisans 
Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
To execute the state's decree ; I dared 
To justify the men — he raised his hand ; — 
Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er flowed 
Dishonorably. 

Doge. Have you long time served ? 

/. J>er. So long as to remember Zara's 
siege. 
And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns 

there. 
Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. — 

Doge. How r are we comrades ? — the 
state's ducal robes 
Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 



1 [This officer was chief of the artisans of the 
arsenal, and commanded the Bucentaur, for the 
safety of which, even if an accidental storm should 
arise, he was responsible with his life. He mounted 
guard at the ducal palace during an interregnum, 
and bore the red standard befTre the new Doge on 
his inauguration. — A'neht de la Honssaye, 79.] 



536 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



[act I. 



Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
So that I recognized you not. Who placed 
you ? 

/. Ber. The late Doge ; keeping still my 
old command 
As patron of a galley : my new office 
Was given as the reward of certain scars 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say) : 
I little thought his bounty would conduct me 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff; 
At least, in such a cause. 

Doge. Are you much hurt ?, 

/. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 

Doge. Speak out ; fear nothing : being 
stung at heart, 
What would you do to be revenged on this 
man ? 

/. Ber. That which I dare not name, and 
yet will do. 

Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 

/. Ber. I come for justice. 

Because niy general is Doge, and will not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any. 
Save Faliero, filled the ducal throne, 
This blood had been washed out in other 
blood. 

Doge. You come to me for justice — unto 
m.e / 
The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it; 
I cannot even obtain it — 'twas denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago ! 

/, Ber. How says your highness ? 

Doge. Steno is condemned 

To a month's confinement. 

/. Ber. What 1 the same who dared 

To stain the ducal throne with those foul 

words. 
That have cried shame to every ear in Venice ? 

Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echoed 
o'er the arsenal, 
Keeping due time with every hammer's clink 
As a good jest to jolly artisans ; 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar. 
In the vile tune of every galley-slave. 
Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
He was not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 

/. Ber. Is't possible ? a month's imprison- 
ment! 
No more for Steno ? 

Doge. You have heard the offence, 

And now you know his punishment; and 

then 
You ask redress of me ! Go to the Forty, 
Who passed the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
They'll do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 

/. Ber. Ah I dared I speak my feelings ! 

Doge. Give them breath. 

Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

/. Ber. Then, in a word, it rests but on 
your word 
To punish and avenge — I will not say 
My petty wrong, for what is a mere blow, 



However vile, to such a thing as I am ? — 
But the base insult done your state and 
person. 
Doge. You overrate my power, which is a 
pageant. 
This caj) is not the monarch's crown ; these 

robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 
/. Ber. Wouldst thou be king ? 
Doge. Yes — of a happy people. 
/. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of 

Venice ? 
Doge. Ay, 

If that the people shared that sovereignty. 
So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, 
The poisonous heads of whose envenomed 

body 
Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 
/. Ber. Yet, thou wast born, and still hast 

lived, patrician. 
Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath made me Doge to be insulted: but 
I lived and toiled a soldier and a servant 
Of Venice and her people, not the senate; 
Their good and my own honor were my guer- 
don. 
I have fought and bled; commanded, ay, and 

conquered ; 
Have made and marred peace oft in em- 
bassies. 
As it might chance to be our country's 'van- 
tage ; 
Have traversed land and sea in constant duty. 
Through almost sixty years, and still for 

Venice, 
My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear 

spires, 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view 
Once more ; but not for any knot of men. 
Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat! 
But would you know why I have done all this ? 
Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
Hath ripped her bosom ? Had the bird a 

voice. 
She'd tell thee 'twas for all her little ones. 
/. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 
Doge. They made me so ; 

I sought it not, tlie flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embassy, 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not. 
At these late years, decline what was the 

highest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In what we have to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
When I can neither right myself nor thee. 



SCENE II.] 



MART MO FALTERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



537 



/. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess 
the will ; 
And many thousands more not less oppressed, 
Who wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 
Doge. You speak in riddles. 
/. Ber. Which shall soon be read 

At peril of my life ; if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 
Doge. Say on. 

/. Ber. Not thou. 

Nor I alone, are injured and abused. 
Contemned and trampled on ; but the whole 

people 
Groan with the strong conception of their 

wrongs : 
The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
The native mariners, and civic troops. 
Feel with their friends ; for who is he amongst 

them 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or 

sisters, 
Have not partook oppression, or pollution. 
From the patricians? And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still maintained 
With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
From their hard earnings, has inflamed them 

further : 
Even now — but, I forget that speaking thus. 
Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death I 
Doge. And suffering what thou hast done 
— fear'st thou death ? 
Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
By those for whom thou hast bled. 

/. Ber. No, I will speak 

At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
Should turn delator, be the shame on him. 
And sorrow too ; for he will lose far more 
Than I. 

Doge. From me fear nothing ; out with it ! 
/. Ber. Know then, that there are met and 
sworn in secret 
A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true; 
Men who have proved all fortunes, and have 

long 
Grieved over that of Venice, and have riglit 
To do so ; having served her in all climes. 
And having rescued her from foreign foes, 
Would do the same from those within her 

walls. 
They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
For their great purpose ; they have arms, and 

means. 
And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient 
courage. 
Doge. For what then do they pause ? 
/. Ber. An hour to strike. 

Doge {aside). Saint Mark's shall strike that 
hour 1 1 

^ The bells of San Marco were never rung but 
by order of the Doge. One of the pretexts for 



/. Ber. I now have placed 

My life, my honor, all my earthly hoj-jes 
Within thy powfM", but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one 

cause. 
Will generate one vengeance : should it be so. 
Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 

Doge. How many are ye ? 

/. Ber. I'll not answer that 

Till I am answered. 

Doge. , How, sir ! do you menace ? 

/. Ber. No ; I affirm. I have betrayed my- 
self; 
But there's no torture in the mystic vvells 
Which undermine your palace, nor in those 
Not less appalling cells, the " leaden roofs," 
To force a single name from me of others. 
The Pozzi -^ and the Piombi were in vain ; 
They might wring blood from me, but treach- 
ery never. 
And I would pass the fearful "Bridge of 

Sighs," 
Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
Between the murderers and the murdered, 

washing 
The prison and the palace walls : there are 
Those who would live to think on't, and 
avenge me. 

Doge. If such your power and purpose, 
why come here 
To sue for justice, being in the course 
To do yourself due right ? 

/. Ber. Because the man, 

Who claims protection from authority, 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and muttered threats had 

made me 
A marked man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be feared, 
And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
1 h^d another reason. 

Doge. What was that ? 

/. Ber. Some rumors that the Doge was 
greatly moved 
By the reference of the Avogadori 

ringing this alarm was to have been an announce- 
ment of the appearance of a Genoese fleet off the 
Lagune. 

'^ [The state dungeons, called Pozzi, or wells, 
were sunk in the thick walls of the palace; and the 
prisoner, when taken oui to die, was conducted 
across the gallery to the other side, and being then 
led back into the other compartment, or cell, upon 
the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal 
through which the criminal was taken into this cell 
is now walled up; but the passage is open, and is 
still known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. — 
Hobhouse.^ 



53S 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act 11. 



Of Michel Steno's sentence to tlie Forty 
Had reached me. I had served you, honored 

you, 
And felt that you were dangerously insulted, 
Being of an order of such spirits, as 
Requite tenfold both good and evil : 'twas 
My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
Now you know all ; and that I speak the truth. 
My peril be the proof. 

Doge. You have deeply ventured; 

But all must do so who would greatly win: 
Thus far I'll answer vou — your secret's safe. 

/. Ber. And is this all ? 

Doge. Unless with all intrusted, 

What would you have me answer ? 

/. Ber. I would have you 

Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 

Doge. But I must know your plan, your 
names, and numbers; 
The last may then be doubled, and the former 
Matured and strengthened. 

/. Ber. We're enough already ; 

You are the sole ally we covet now. 

Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of 
your chiefs. 

/, Ber. That shall be done upon your 
formal pledge 
To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 

Doge. When ? where ? 

/. Ber. This night I'll bring to your apart- 
ment 
Two of the principals ; a greater number 
Were hazardous. 

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. 

What if I were to trust myself amongst you. 
And leave the palace ? 

/. Ber. You must come alone. 

Dooe. With but my nephew. 

/. Ber. Not were he your son. 

Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? 
He died in arms 
At Sapienza for this faitiiless state. 
Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes! 
Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

/. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom 
thou doubtest, 
But will regard thee with a filial feeling, 
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place 
of meeting ? 

/. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and 
masked 
Where'er your highness pleases to direct me. 
To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
Upon our project. 

Doge. ' At what hour arises 

The moon ? 

/. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick 
and dusky, 
'Tis a sirocco. 



Doge. At the m.idnight hour, then. 

Near to the church where sleep my sires ; 1 

the same. 
Twin-named from the apostles John and 

Paul ; 
A gondota,2 with one oar only, will 
Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 
Be there. 

/. Ber. I will not fail. 

Doge. And now retire 

/. Ber. In the full hope your highness wih 
not falter 
In your great purpose. Prince, I take my 
leave. [Jixti Israel Bertuccio 

Doge {solus). At midnight, by the church 
Saints John and Paul, 
Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — 
To what ? to hold a council in the dark 
With common ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 
And will not my great sires leap from the 

vault. 
Where lie two doges who preceded me. 
And pluck me down amongst them ? Would 

they could I 
For I should rest in honor with the honored. 
Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
Who have made me thus unworthy of a name 
Noble and brave as aught of consular 
On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
Back to its antique lustre in our annals. 
By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venice, 
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
To all the growing calumnies of time. 
Which never spare tlie fame of him who fails. 
But try the Cassar or the Catiline, 
By the true touchstone of desert — success. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — An Apartment in the Ducal 
Palace. 

ANGIOLINA {wife of the DOGE) a?id MaRI- 

ANNA. 

Ang. What was the Doge's answer ? 
Mar. That he was 

That moment summoned to a conference ; 

* [The Doges weie all buried in St. Mark's de- 
fore Kaliero. It is singular tliat when his prede- 
cessor, Andrea Dandolo, died, the Ten made a law 
that all the future Doges should be buried with their 
families in their own churches — one would think, 
by a kind of presentiment. So that all that is said 
of his ancestral Doges, as burled at St. Johr.'s 
and Paul's, is altered from the fact, they being 
in St iM-\rk's. Make a note of this, and put Editor 
as the subscription to it. As I make such preten- 
sions to accuracy, I should not like to be twitted 
even with such trifles on that score. Of the play 
they may say what they please, but not so of my 
costume and dram. pers. — they having been real 



existences. — Byron'' s Letters, Oct. 1820.] 

, out is 



* A gondola is not like a common boat, 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



539 



But 'tis by this time ended. I perceived 
Not long ago the senators embarking ; 
And the last gondola may now be seen 
Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
The glittering waters. 

Aug. Would he were returned 1 

He has been much disquieted of late ; 
And Time, which has not tamed his fiery 

spirit 
Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
Which seems to be more nourished by a soul 
So quick and restless that it would consume 
Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
To other spirits of his order, who, 
In the first burst of passion, pour away 
Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him 
An aspect of eternity: his thoughts, 
His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 
Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 
Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of 

years, 
Not their decrepitude : and he of late 
Has been more agitated than his wont. 
Would he were come ! for I alone have power 
Upon his troubled spirit. 

Mar. It is true. 

His highness has of late been greatly moved 
By the affront of Steno, and with cause : 
But the offender doubtless even now 
Is doomed to expiate his rash insult with 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble blood. 

A>ig. 'Twas a gross insult ; but I heed it 
not 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself. 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
Which it has made upon Faliero's soul. 
The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me : I tremble when I think 
To what it may conduct. 

Mar. Assuredly 

The Doge can not suspect you ? 

Ancr. Suspect me / 

Why Steno dared not : when he scrawled his' 

lie, 
Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmer- 
ing light. 
His own still conscious smote him for the act. 
And every shadow on the walls frowned shame 
Upon his coward calumny. 

Mar. 'Twere fit 

He should be punished grievously. 

Attg. He is so. 

Mar. What ! is the sentence passed ? is he 
condemned ? 

Ang. I know not that, but he has been de- 
tected. 



easily rowed with one oar as with two (though of 
course, not so swiftly), and often is so from motives 
of privacy; and, since the decay of Venice, of 
economy. 



Mar. And deem you this enough for such 

foul scorn ? 
Af7g. I would not be a judge in my own 
cause, 
Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno; 
But if his insults sink no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 
Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slandered 

virtue. 
A?tg. Why, what is virtue if it needs a 
victim ? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
Tiie dying Roman said, " 'twas but a name : " 
It were indeed no more, if human breath 
Could make or mar it. 

Mar. Yet full many a dame. 

Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
Of such a slander; and less rigid ladies. 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

Ang. This but proves it is the name 

And not the quality they prize: the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honor, 
If they require it to be blazoned forth ; 
And those who have not kept it, seek its 

seeming 
As they would look out for an ornament 
Of which they feel the want, but not because 
They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts, 
And would seem honest as they must seem 
fair. 
Mar. You have strange thoughts for a 

patrician dame. 
Ang. And yet they were my father's ; with 
his name. 
The sole inheritance he left. 

Mar. You want none ; 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 
Ang. I should have sought none though a 
peasant's bride. 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestowed my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend, 
The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 
Afar. And with that hand did he bestow 

your heart ? 
Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestowed. 
Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in 
your years, 
And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 
Might make the world doubt whether sucn an 

union 
Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 
Ang. The world will think with worldlings ; 
but my heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
But never difficult. 
Mar, And do you love him ? 



540 



MARINO FALTER O, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act II. 



Ang^. I love all noble qualities which merit 
Love, and I loved my father, who first taught 

me 
To single out what we should love in others, 
And to subdue all tendency to lend 
The best and purest feelings of our nature 
To baser passions. He bestowed my hand 
Upon Faliero : he had known him noble, 
Brave, generous; rich in all the qualities 
Of soldier, citizen, and friend; in all 
Such have I found him as my father said. 
His faults are those that dwell in the high 

bosoms 
Of men who have commanded ; too much 

pride. 
And the deep passions fiercely fostered by 
The uses of patricians, and a life 
Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 
P'rom the quick sense of honor, which be- 
comes 
A duty to a certain sign, a vice 
When overstrained, and this I fear in him. 
And then he has been rash from his youth 

upwards. 
Yet tempered by redeeming nobleness 
In such sort, that the wariest of republics 
Has lavished all its chief employs upon him, 
From his first fight to his last embassy, 
From which on his return the dukedom met 
him. 
Afar. But previous to this marriage, had 
your heart 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, 
Such as in years had been more meet to match 
Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er 

seen 
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter ? 
Aug. I answered your first question when 
I said 
I married. 
Mar. And the second ? 
Ang. Needs no answer. 

Mar. I pray your pardon, if I have of- 
fended. 
Aug. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : 
I knew not 
That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what they now might choose. 
Or aught save their past choice. 

Mar. ' Tis their past choice 

That far too often makes them deem they 

would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 
Aftg. It may be so. I knew not of such 

thoughts. 
Mar. Here comes the Doge — shall I re- 
tire? 
Ang. It may 
Be better you should quit me ; he seems rapt 
In th ^ught. — Howpensivelvhe takes his wav ! 
[Exit MAKlAiMNA. i 



Enter the DOGE and PlETRO. 

Doge {fnusing). There is a certain Philip 
Calendaro 
Now in the Arsenal, who holds, command 
Of eighty men, and has great influence 
Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
This man, I hear, is bold and popular. 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 'twould ' 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Isreal Bertuccio has secured him. 
But fain would be 

Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 

For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, 
Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let 
me see — 
Say in the second hour of night. 

\_Exit PlETRO. 

Ang. My lord ! 

Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — why 
delay 
So long approaching me ? — I saw you not. 

Ang. You were absorbed in thought, and 
he who now 
Has parted from you might have words of 

weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

Doge. From the senate ? 1 

Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

Doge. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 
'Tis we who owe all service to the senate. 



1 [This scene is, perhaps, the finest in the whole 
play. The character of the calm, pure-spirited 
Angiolina is developed in it most admirably; — the 
great difference between her temper and that of he» 
fiery husband is vividly portrayed; — but not les>. 
vividly touched is that strong bond of their unio. » 
which exists in the common nobleness of thei' 
deeper natures. There is no spark of jealousy ii 
the old man's thoughts, — he does not expect the 
fervors of youthful passion in his wife, nor does 
he find them: but he finds what is far better, — the 
fearless confidence of one, who, being to the heart's 
core innocent, can scarcely be a believer in the ex- 
istence of such a thing as guilt. He finds every 
charm which gratitude, respect, anxious and deep- 
seated affection can give to the confidential lan- 
guage of a lovely, and a modest, and a pious woman. 
She has been extremely troubled by her observance 
of the countenance and gesture of the Doge, ever 
since the discovery of Steno's guilt; and she does 
all she can to soothe him from his proud irritation. 
Strong in her consciousness of purity, she has 
brought herself to regard without anger the insult 
offered to herself; and the yet uncorrected instinct 
of a noble heart makes her try to persuade her lord, 
as she is herself persuaded, that Steno, whatever 
be the sentence of his judges, must be punished — 
more even than they would wish him to be — by the 
secret su^estlons of his own guilty conscience.-' 
LockharT>^ 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALTERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



541 



An^-. I thought the Duke had held com- 
mand in Venice. 

Dooe. He shall. — But let that pass. — We 
will be jocund. 
How fares it with you ? have you been abroad? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favors the gondolier's light skimming oar ; 
Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
Or lias your music made you solitary? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
T\\d little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
Of fitting splendor, or of honest pleasure, 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares ? 
Speak, and 'tis clone. 

.Z//^'-. You're ever kind to me. 

I have nothing to desire, or to request. 
Except to see you oftener and calmer. 

Doge. Calmer ? 

Aug. Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 
Do you still keep apart, and walk alone. 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow. 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

Doge. Disclose too much ! — of what ? 

What is there to disclose ? 

Aug. A heart so ill 

At ease. 

Doge. 'Tis nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from the Genoese without. 
And malcontents within — 'tis this which 

makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

Aug. Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
More than the mere discharge of public duties. 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have rendered light, nay, a necessity. 
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
You, who have stood all storms and never sunk. 
And clim2d up to the pinnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port. 
Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall. 
As you have risen, with an unaltered brow — 
Your feelings now are of a different kind; 
Something has stungyour pride, notpatriotism. 

Doge. Pride 1 Angiolina ? Alas ! none is 
left me. 

Ang. Yes — the same sin that overthrew 
the angels. 
And of all sins most easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 



Doge. I had the pride of honor, of yout 
honor. 

Deep at my heart But let us change the 

theme. 
Ang. Ah no 1 — As I have ever shared your 
kindness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
From your distress : were it of public import. 
You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To ligliten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
Unfixed your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
And I would soothe you back to what you 
were. 
Doge. To what I was ! — Have you heard 

Steno's sentence ? 
Ang. No. 

Doge. A month's arrest. 

Aug. Is it not enough ? 

Doge. Enough 1 — yes, for a drunken gal- 
ley slave. 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his 

master, 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honor 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

Ang. There seems to be enough in the con- 
viction 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
All other punishment were light unto 
His loss of honor. 

Doge. Such men have no honor ; 

They have but their vile Uves — and these are 
spared. 
Ang. You would not have him die for this 

offence ? 
Doge. Not 71010: — being still alive, I'd 
have him live 
Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damned his hundred 

judges, 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 
Ang. Oh! had this false and flippant li- 
beller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon. 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have 

known 
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 
Doge. Does not the law of Heaven say 
blood for blood ? 
And he who taints kills more than he who 

sheds it. 
Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows, 
That make such deadly to the sense of man ? 
Do not the laws of man say blood for honor ? 
And, less than honor, for a little gold ? 
Say not the laws of nations blood for treason ? 
Is't nothing to have filled these veins with 

poison 
For their once healthful current ? is it nothing 



542 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act II 



To have slainecl your name and mine — the 

noblest names ? 
Is't nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince before his people ? to have failed 
la the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 
To virtue m your sex, and dignity 
In ours ? — But let them look to it who have 
saved him.^^ 

Anj^. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 

Dog.'. Dotli Heaven forgive her own ? Is 
Satan saved 
From wrath eternal ? '^ 

Aug-. Do not speak thus wildly — 

Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

Doge Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 

Ang. And will you? 

Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven 1 

Ang. And not till then ? 

Doge. What matters my forgiveness 7 an 
old man's, 
Worn out, scorned, spurned, abused; what 

matters then 
My pardon more than my resentment, both 
Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too 

long. — 
But let us change the argument. — My child ! 
My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 
The brave, the chivalrous, how little deemed 
Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend. 
That he was linking thee to shame ! — Alas ! 
Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. 

Hadst thou 
But had a different husband, any husband 
In Venice savethe Doge, this blight, this brandy 
This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 
So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure. 
To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 

Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still 
love me. 
And trust, and honor me ; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command ? 

Doge. 'Tis well. 

And may be better ; but whate'er betide. 
Be thou at least kind to my memory. 

Ang. Why speak you thus ? 

Doge. It is no matter why ; 

But I would still, whatever others tliink. 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 



1 [This scene between the Doge and Angiolina, 
though intolerably long, has more force and beauty 
than any thing that goes before it. She endeavors 
to soothe the furious mood of her aged partner; while 
he insists that nothing but the libeller's death could 
make fitting expiation for his offence. This speech 
of the Doge is an elaborate, pnd, after all, ineffectual 
attempt, by rhetorical exaggerations, to give some 
color to the insane and unmeasured resentment on 
which the piece hinges. — ^^^'^'O'-] 

2MS.— 
" Doth Heaven forgive her own ? is there not Hell ? " 



Ang. Why should you doubt it ? has it ever 
failed ? 

Doge. Come hither, child ; I would a word 
with you. 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Which bind the good more firmly : when, op- 
pressed 
With his last malady, he willed our union, 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honorable safety from the perils. 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely and undowered maid. I did not 
Think with him, but would not oppose the 

thought 
Which soothed his death-bed. 

Ang. I have not forgotten 

The nobleness with which you bade me speak 
If my young heart held any preference 
Which would have made me happier; nor 

your offer 
To make my dowry equal to the rank 
Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
My father's last injunction gave you. 

Doge. Thus, 

'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice. 
Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
Which made me coveteous of girlish beauty, 
And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
I swayed such passions ; nor was this my 

age 
Infected with that leprosy of lust 
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
Making them ransack to the very last 
The dregs of pleasure for their vanished joys ; 
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim. 
Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest. 
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
Freedom from me to choose, and urged in 

answer 
Your father's choice. 

Ang. I did so ; I would do so 

In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 
In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 

Doge. I knew my heart would never treat 
you harshly ; 
I knew my days could not disturb you long ; // 
And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
His worthy daughter, free to choose i'^gain, 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
By passing these probationary years 
Inheriting a prince's name and riches, 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, against all 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
Have urged against her right; my best 
friend's child 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FAUERO, DOGE OP VENICE. 



543 



Would choose more fitly in respect of years, 
And not less truly in a faithful heart. 
An^. My lord, I looked but to my father's 

wishes, 
Hallowed by his last words, and to my heart 
yor doing all its duties, and replying 
With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 
Ambitious hopes ne'er crossed my dreams ; 

and should 
The hour you speak of come, it will be seen 

so. 
Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you 

true : 
For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
No lure for me, in my most passionate days. 
And could not be so now, did such exist. 
But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little 

failings 
As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
You had been won, but thought the change 

your choice; 
A pride not in your beauty, but your con- 
duct, — 
A trust in you — a patriarchal love, 
And not a doting homage — friendship, 

fliith — 
Such estimation in your eyes as these 
Might claim, I hoped for. 
Ang. And have ever had. 

Doge. I think so. For the difference in 

our years 
You knew it, choosing me, and chose : I 

trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
In such, nor outward ornaments of nature. 
Were I still in my fiv« and twentieth spring ; 
I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you — to the truths your father 

taught you — 
To your belief in heaven — to your mild vir- 
tues — 
To your own faith and honor, for my own. 
Af7g. You have done well. — I thank you 

for that trust. 
Which I have never for one moment ceased 
I'o honor you the more for. 

Doge. Where is honor. 

Innate and precept-strengthened, 'tis the rock 
Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honesty in such infected blood, 



Although 'twere wed to him it covets most : 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
In all his marl)le-chiselled beauty, or 
The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not; 
It is consistency which forms and proves it : 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
The once fallen^oman must for ever fall; 
For vice must have variety, while virtue 
Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her 
aspect. 

Aug. And seeing, feeling thus this truth iv 
others, 
(I pray you pardon me;) but wherefore 

yield you 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Steno? 

Doge. You mistake me. 
It is not Steno who could move me thus; 
Had it been so, he should but let that pass. 

A>ig. What is't you feel so deeply, then, 
even now? 

Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once insulted in her lord and laws. 

Ang. Alas 1 why will you thus consider it? 

Doge. I have thought on't till but let 

me lead you back 
To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 
1 wedded you; the world then did me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
They did me dght, while yours was all to 

praise : 
You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
From me and mine ; and, born of those who 

made 
Princes at home, and swept kings from their 

thrones 
On foreign shores, in all things you appeared 
Worthy to be our first of native dames. 

Ang. To what does this conduct? 

Doge. To thus much — that 

A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blighting venom of his sweltering heart, 
And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honor, pass 
Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consoi t, 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

Ang. But he has been condemned into 
captivity. 



544 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act 11// 



Doge. For such as him a dungeon were 
acquittal ; 
And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I've done with him ; 
The rest must be with you. 

Aug. With me, my lord? 

Doge. Yes Angiolina. Do not marvel; I 
Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
My life cannot be long ; and<^in would have 

you 
Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll ( Giving her a paper. ^ Fear 

not ; they are for your advantage : 
Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 
Ang. My lord, in life, and after life, you 
shall 
Be honored still by me : but may your days 
Be many yet — and happier than the present! 
'I his passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and what you should be — what you 
were. 
Doge. I will be what I should be, or be 
nothing; 
But never more — oh ! never, never more. 
O'er the few days or hours which yet await 
Th-i blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
Sweet Quiet shed her sunset 1 Never more 
Those summer shadows rising from the past 
Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life, 
Mellowing the last hours as the night ap- 
proaches. 
Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. 
I had but little more to ask, or hope. 
Save the regards due to the bipod and sweat, 
And the soul's labor through which I had 

toiled 
To make my country honored. As her ser- 
vant — 
Her servant, though her chief — I would have 

gone 
Down to my fathers with a name serene 
And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied 

me. — 
Would I had died at Zara ! 



There you saved 
then live to save her still. A 



Ang. 
The state; 

day. 
Another day like that would be the best 
Reproof lo them, and sole revenge for you. 

Doge. But one such day occurs within an 
age; 
My lite is little less than one, and 'tis 
Enough for Fortune to have granted once. 
That which scarce one more favored citizen 
May win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then why should I remember it? — Farewell, 
Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet ; 
There's much forme to do — and the hour 
hastens. 

Ang. Remember what you were. 

Doge. It were in vain ! 



Joy's recollection is no longer joy. 
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 
Ang. At least, whate'er may urge, let me 

implore 
That you will take some little pause of rest : 
Your sleep for many nights has been so tur-: 

bid. 
That it had been relief to have awaked you, / 
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'er- 

power 
At length the thoughts which shook your 

slumbers thus. 
An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
With fitter thoughts and freshened strength. 

Doge. I cannot — 

I must not, if I could ; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
And I shall slumber well — but where ? — no 

matter. 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

Ang. Let me be 

An instant — yet an instant your companion 1 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

Doge. Come then, 

My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 
For better fortunes than to share in mine, 
Now darkling in their close toward the deep 

vale 
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping 

shadow. 
When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that 

stirring 
Within — above — around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
When I am nothing, let that which I was 
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
Which would not have thee mourn it, but re- 
member ; — 
Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 

\Exeu7it. 

Scene H. — A retired Spot near the Arsenal. 
Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calen- 

DARO. 

Cal. How sped you, Israel, in your late 
complaint ? 

/. Ber. Why, well. 

Cal. Is't possible ! will he be punished ? 

/. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. With what ? a mulct or an arrest ? 

/. Ber. With death ! — 

Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 
Such as I counselled you, with your own hand. 

/. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught of 
hate, forego 
The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
And change a lifie of hope for one of exile ; 



SCENE 11 J 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



545 



Leaving one scorpion crushed, and thousands 

stinging 
Vly friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
Vo, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood, 
Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 

For their requital But not only his ; 

vVe will not strike for pri"ate wrongs alone : 
Such are for selfish passions and rash men. 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

Cal. You have more patience than I care 
to boast. 
Had I been present when you bore this insult, 
I must have slain him, or expired myself 
In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 

/. Ber. Thank Heaven, you were not — all 
had else been marred : 
As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still. 

Cal, You saw 

The Doge — what answer gave he ? 

/. Ber. That there was 

No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

Cal. I told you so before, and that 'twas 
idle 
To think of justice from such hands. 

/. Ber. At least. 

It lulled suspicion, showing confidence. 
Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 

Cal. But wherefore not address you to the 
Council ? 
The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him ? 
/. Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 
Cal. Why not now ? 

/. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get 
your musters. 
And bid our fi-iends prepare their com- 
panies : — 
Set all in readiness to strike the blow. 
Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long waited 
For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
It may be, of to-morrow 's sun : delay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
And armed, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain among the troops to wait 
The signal. 

Cal. These brave words have breathed* 
new life 
Into my veins ; I am sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils : day on day 
Crawled on, and added but another link 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 
Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
For the result, which must be death or free- 
dom ! 
I'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 
/. Ber. We will be free in life or death ! 
the grave i 



Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready? 
And are the sixteen companies completed 
I'o Sixty ? 

Cal. All save two, in which there are 
Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 
/. Ber. No matter; we can do without. 

Whose are they? 
Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of 
whom 
Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 
/. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem 
all those 
Who are not restless cold : but there exists 
Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt 
them. 
Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Ber- 
tram 
There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
To enterprise like ours : I've seen that man 
Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
Of others, heedlessof his own, though greater; 
And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 
/. Ber. The truly brave are soft of heart 
and eyes. 
And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
I have known Bertram long ; there doth not 

breathe 
A soul more full of honor. 

Cal. It may be so : 

I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife 
To work upon his milkiness of spirit. 
He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve. 

/. Ber. Such ties are not 

For those who are called to the high destinies 
Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
We must forget all feelings save the 07ie — 
We must resign all passions save our pur- 
pose — 
We must behold no object save our country — 
And only look on death as beautiful. 
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven. 
And draw down freedom on her evermore. 

Cal. But if we fail 

/. Ber. They never fail who die 

In a great cause : the block may soak their 

gore ; 
Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their limbs 
Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though 

years 
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom. 
They but augment the deep and sweeping 

thoughts 
W^hich overpower all others, and conduct 
The world at last to freedom : What were we. 
If Brut js had not lived ? He died in giving 



546 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act II, 



Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 
A name whicli is a virtue, and a soul 
Which multiplies itself throughout all time 
Wl en wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
Turns servile: he and his high friend were 

styled 
" The last of Romans ! " Let us be the first 
Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

Cal. Our fathers did not fiy from Attila 
Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
On banks redeemed from the rude ocean's 

ooze. 
To own a thousand despots in his place. 
Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms 

masters. 
The first at least was man, and used his sword 
As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 
Command our swords, and rule us with a word 
As with a spell. 

/. Ber. It shall be broken soon. 

You say that -all things are in readiness : 
To-day I have not been the usual round, 
And why thou knowest ; but thy vigilance 
Will better have supplied my care : these 

orders 
III recent council to redouble now 
Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fair color to the introduction 
Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment. 
Or fresh recruits obtained in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with 
arms ? 
CaL All who were deemed trustworthy : 
there are some 
Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
Till it be time to strike, and then supply them ; 
When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
They have no opportunity to pause. 
But needs must on with those who will sur- 
round them. 
/. Ber. You have said well. Have you re- 
marked all such ? 
CaL I've noted most; and caused the 
other chiefs 
To use like caution in their companies. 
As far as I have seen, we are enough 
To make the enterprise secure, if 'tis 
Commenced to-morrow ; but, till 'tis begun. 
Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils. 
/. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted 
hour. 
Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
Within the arsenal, and hold all ready 
Expectant of the signal we will fix on. 
Cal. We will not fail. 

/. Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 

I have a stranger to present to them. 

Cal. A stranger! doth he know the secret ? 
/. Ber. Yes. 



Cal. And have you dared to peril your 

friends' lives 
On a rash confidence in one we know not ? 
/. Ber. I have risked no man's life except 

my own — 
Of that be certain : he is one who may 
Make our assurance doubiy sure, according 
His aid ; and if reluctant, he no less 
Is in our power : he comes alone with me, 
And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not swerve 
Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know 

him : 
Is he one of our order? 

/. Ber. Ay, in spirit, 

Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
Who would become a throne, or overthrow 

one — 
One who has done great deeds, and seen 

great changes ; 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny; 
Valiant in war, and sage in council ; noble 
In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet wary : 
Yet for all this, so full of certain passions. 
That if once stirred and baffled, as he has 

been 
Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 
In Grecian story like to that which wrings 
His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
Grows capable of all things for revenge; 
And add too, that his mind is liberal. 
He sees and feels the people are oppressed. 
And shares their sufferings. Take him all in 

all. 
We have need of such, and such have need 

of us. 
Cal. And what part would you have him 

take with us ? 
/. Ber. It may be, that of chief. 
Cal. What ! and resign 

Your own command as leader ? 

/. Ber. Even so. 

My object is to make your cause end well, 
And not to push myself to power. Experi- 
ence, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had marked 

me out 
To act in trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear: if I have found 

such 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy, 

think you 
That I would hesitate from selfishness, 
And, covetous of brief authority. 
Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
Rather than yield to one above me in 
All leading qualities ? No, Calendaro, 
Know your friend better; but you all shall 

judge. — 
Away ! and let us meet at the fixed hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 

Cal. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known yo« 

ever 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



547 



Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
What I have still bet-n prompt to execute. 
For my own part, I seek no other chief; 
What the rest will decide I know not, but 
I am with YOU, as I have ever been, 
In all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. 

{Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — Scene, the Space between the Canal 
and the Church of San Giovanni e San 
Paolo. An equestrian Statue before it. — A 
Gondola lies in the Canal at some distance. 
Enter the DOGE alone, disguised. 

Doge {solns). I am before the hour, the 

hour whose voice. 
Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
These palaces with ominous tottering, 
And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, 
Waking the sleepers from some hideous 

dream 
Of indistinct but awful augury 
Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud 

city! 
Thou must be cleansed of the black blood 

which makes thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
Is forced upon me, I have sought it not; 
And therefore was I punished, seeing this 
Pntrician pestilence spread on and on. 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The plague-spots in the healing wave. Tall 

fane ! 
Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues 

shadow 
The floor which doth divide us from the dead. 
Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold 

blood. 
Mouldered into a mite of ashes, hold 
In one shrunk heap what once made many 

heroes. 
When what is now a handful shook the 

earth — 
Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our 

house ! 
Vault where two Doges rest— my sires! who 

died 
The one of toil, the other in the field. 
With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
And sages, whose great labors, wounds, and 

state 
I have inherited, — let the graves gape. 
Til! all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 
And pour them from thy portals to gaze on 

me! 
I call them up, and them and thee to witness 
Whnf it hath been which put me to this 

task — 



Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of 

glories. 
Their mighty name dishonored all in me, 
Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 
We fought to make our equals, not our 

lords : — 
And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 
Who perished in the field, where I since con- 
quered. 
Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 
Of thine and Venice' foes, there offered up 
By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? 
Spirits! smile down upon me; for my cause 
Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 
Your fame, your name, all mingled up in 

mine, 
And in the future fortunes of our race ! 
Let me but prosper, and I make this city 
Free and immortal, and our house's name 
Worthier of what you were, now and here- 
after ! 1 

Enter ISRAEL BerTUCCIO. 
/. Ber. Who goes there ? 
Doge. A friend to Venice. 

/. Ber. 'Tis he. 

Welcome, my lord, — you are before the time. 
Doge. I am ready to proceed to your as- 
sembly. 
/. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and 
pleased to see 
Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
Since our last meeting, then, are all dispelled ? 
Doge. Not so — but I have set my little left 
Of life upon this cast : the die was thrown 
When I first listened to your treason — Start 

not! 
That is the word ; I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
Though I be wrought on to commit them. 

When 
I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
To have you dragged to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 
/. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most 
tmmerited ; 
I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 
Doge. We — \ Ve / — no matter — you have 
earned the right 
To talk of «j. — But to the point.— If this 
Attempt succeeds, and Venice, rendered free 
And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 
Conducts her generations to our tombs. 
And makes her children with their little hands 
Strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, then 
The consequence will sanctify the deed, 
And we shall be like the two Bruti in 

1 [The Doge, true to his appointment, is waiting 
for his conductor before the church of San Paolo e 
Giovanni. There is great loftiness, both of feeling 
and diction, in this passage. — Jeffrey.^ 



548 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act III. 



The annals of hereafter ; but if not, 
If we should fail, employing bloody means 
And secret plot, although to a good end, 
Still we are traitors, honest Israel; — thou 
No less than he who was toy sovereign 
Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

/. Be)-. "lis not the moment to consider 
thus. 
Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

Doge. We are observed, and have been. 

/. Ber. We observed ! 
Let me discover — and this steel 

Doge. Put up ; 

Here are no human witnesses ; look there — 
What see you ? 

/. Ber. Only a tall warrior's statue 

Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

Doge. That warrior was the sire 

Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by the twice rescued city : — 
Think you that he looks down on us or no ? 

/. Ber. My lord, these are mere fantasies ; 
there are 
No eyes in marble. 

Doge. But there are in Death, 

I tell thee, man, there is a spirit in 
Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though 

felt; 
And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
'Tis in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief, 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure 

graves 
With stung plebeians ? i 

/. Ber. It had been as well 



1 [There is a great deal of natural struggle in the 
breast of the high-born and haughty Doge, between 
the resentment with whiqh he burns on the one hand, 
and the reluctance with which he considers the mean- 
ness of the associates with whom he has leagued him- 
self, on the other. The conspiring Doge is not, we 
think, meant to be ambitious for himself, but he is 
sternly, proudly, a Venetian noble; and it is impos- 
sible for him to tear from his bosom the scorn for 
every thing plebeian which has been implanted there 
by birth, education, and a long life of princely com- 
mand. There are other thoughts, too, and of a gen- 
tler kind, which cross from time to time his perturbed 
spirit. He remembers — he cannot entirely forget — 
the days and nights of old companionship, by which 
he had long been bound to those whose sentence he 
has consented to seal. He has himself been declaim- 
ing against the folly of mercy, and arguing valiantly 
the necessity of total extirpation, — and that, too, in 
the teeth even of some of the plebeian conspirators 
themselves: yet the poet, with profound insight into 
the human heart, makes him shudder when his own 
impetuosity has brought himself, and all who hear 
him, to the brink. He cannot look upon the bloody 
resohuion, no not even after he himself has been the 
chief nstrument of its formation. — Lockhart.\ 



To have pondered this before, — ere you em- 
barked 
In our great enterprise. — Do you repent ? 
Doge. No — but \ feel, and shall do to the 
last. 
I cannot quench a glorious life at once. 
Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be,2 
And take men's lives by stealth, without some 

pause : 
Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling, 
And knowing what has wrung me to be thus, 
Which is your best security. There's not 
A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
So wronged as I, so fallen, so loudly called 
To his redress : the very means I am forced 
By these ftll tyrants to adopt is such. 
That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 
/. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour 

strikes. 
Doge. On — on — 

It is our knell or that of Venice — On. 
/. Ber. Say rather, 'tis her freedom's rising 
peal 

Of triumph This way — we are near the 

place. {Exeunt. 

Scene II.— The House where the Conspira- 
tors meet. 

Dagolino, Doro, Bertram, Fedele 
Trevisa-no, Calendaro, Antonio 

DELLE BENDE, etc. etc. 

Cal. (^entering). Are all here ? 

Dag. AH with you ; except the three 

On duty, and our leader Israel, 
Who is expected momently. 

Cal. Where's Bertram ? 

Ber. Here ! 

Cal. Have you not been able to complete 
The number wanting in your company ? 

Ber. I had marked out some : but I have 
not dared 
To trust them with the secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

Cal. There is no need 

Of trusting to their faith : who, save ourselv'es 
And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
Fully of our intent ? they think themselves 
Engaged in secret to the Signory,^ 
To punish some more dissolute young nobles 
Who have defied the law in their excesses : 
But once drawn up, and their new swords 

well fleshed 
In the rank hearts of the more odious sena- 
tors. 
They will not hesitate to follow up 
Their blow upon the others, when they see 



2 [MS.— 

Nor dwindle to a cut-throat without shuddering."] 
^"An historical fact. See Appendix, Note A. 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



549 



The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
Will set them such, that they for very shame 
And safety will not pause till all have perished. 

Ber. How say you ? all! 

Cal. Whom wouldst thou spare ? 

Ber. I spare f 

I have no power to spare. I only questioned, 
Thinking that even amongst these wiekecl 

men 
There might be some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

Cal. Yes, such pity 

As when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun. 
In the last energy of venomous life. 
Deserve and have. Why, I should think as 

soon 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
Of saving one of these : they form but links 
Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, one 

body, 
They eat, and drink, and live, and breed to- 
gether. 
Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, — 
So let them die as one/ 

Dag. Should one survive, 

He would be dangerous as the whole ; it is not 
Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy 
Which must be rooted out; and if there were 
A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
'Twould fasten in the soil, and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
Bertram, we must be firm ! 

Cal. Look to it well, 

Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 

Ber. Who 

Distrusts me ? 

Cal. Not I ; for if I did so. 

Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of 

trust : 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith, 
Which makes thee to be doubted. 

Ber. You should know 

Who hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppres- 
sion ; 
A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you have found me ; and if brave or no. 
You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have 

seen me 
Put to the proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
I'll clear them on your person ! 

Cal. You are welcome 

When once our enterprise is o'er, which must 

not 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. 

Ber. I am no brawler ; but can bear myself 
As far among the foe as any he 
Who hears me ; else why have I been selected 
To be of your chief comrades ? but no less 



I own my natural weakness ; I have not . 
Yet learned to think of indiscriminate murder 
Without some sense of shuddering; and the 

sight 
Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps 

is not 
To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
Of man surprised a glory. Well — too well 
I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose acts have raised up such avengers ; but 
If there were some of these who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honor, to take off some stain 
Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion 1 

Dag, Calm thee, Bertram. 

For we suspect thee not, and take good heart ; 
It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
Such actions from our hands : we'll wash away 
All stains in Freedom's fountain 1 

Enter ISRAEL BERTUCCIO, and the DOGE, 
disguised. 

Dag. Welcome, Israel. 

Consp. Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, 
thou art late — 
Who is this stranger ? 

Cal. It is time to name him. 

Our comrades are even now prepared to greet 

him 
In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
Approved by thee, and thus approved by all. 
Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself. 

/. Ber. Stranger, step forth ! 

[ The DOGE discovers himself. 

Consp. To arms ! — we are betrayed — it 

is the Doge ! 

]!)own with them both ! our traitorous captain, 

and 
The tyrant he hath sold us to. 

Cal. {draiving his sword) . Hold ! hold ! 
Who moves a step against them dies. Hold ! 

hear 
Bertuccio — What ! are you appalled to see 
A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
Amongst you ? — Israel, speak! what means 
this mystery ? 
/. Ber. Let them advance and strike at 
their own bosoms. 
Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
Depend their own, their fortunes, and their 
hopes. 
Doge. Strike! — If I dreaded death, a 
death more fearful 
Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
I should not now be here : — Oh, noble Cour- 
age ! 
The eldest born of Fear, which makes you 
brave 



550 



MAR WO FALIERO, DOGE OP VENICE. 



[act III. 



Against this solitary hoary head ! 

See the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 

And shake down senates, mad with wrath and 

dread 
At sight of one patrician ! — Butcher me, 
You can ; I care not. — Israel, are these men 
The miglity hearts you spoke of ? look upon 
them I 
Cal. f'aith ! he hath shamed us, and de- 
servedly. 
Was this your trust in your true chief Bertuc- 

cio, 
To turn your swords against him and his guest ? 
Sheathe them, and hear him. 

/. Ber. I disdain to speak. 

They might and must have known a heart like 

mine 
Incapable of treachery; and the power 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To further their design was ne'er abused. 
They might be certain that whoe'er was 

brought 
By me into this council had been led 
To take his choice — as brother or as victim. 
Doge. And which am I to be ? your ac- 
tions leave 
Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 
/. Ber. My lord, we would have perished 
here together, 
Had these rash men proceeded ; but, behold, 
They are ashamed of that mad moment's im- 
pulse. 
And droop their heads ; believe me, they are 

such 
As I described them — Speak to them. 

Cal. Ay, speak ; 

We are all listening in wonder. 

/. Ber. {addressing the Conspirators). You 
are safe. 
Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen then. 
And know my words for truth. 

Doge. You see me here. 

As one of you hath said, an old, unarmed. 
Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw me 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state, 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine. 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
Why' I was there you know, or think you know ; 
Why I am here, he who hath been most 

wronged, 
He who among you hath been most insulted. 
Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
Asking of his own heart what brought him 

here ? 
You know my recent story, all men know it, 
And judge of it far differently from those 
Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spare me the recital — it is here. 
Here at my heart the outrage — but my words, 



Already spent in unavailing plaints, 
Would only show my feebleness the more. 
And I come here to strengthen even the strong, 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge 

you. 
Our private wrongs have sprung from public 

vices 
In this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor 

people. 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state 1 
Without its virtues — temperance and valor. 
The Lords of Lacedaemon were true soldiers. 
But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 
Although dressed out to head a pageant, as 
The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves 

to form 
A pastime for their children. You are met 
To overthrow this monster of a state. 
This mockery of a government, this spectre, 
Which must be exorcised with blood, — and 

then 
We will renew the times of truth and justice. 
Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 
Not rash equality but equal rights, 
Proportioned like the columns to the temple. 
Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 
And making firm the whole with grace and 

beauty. 
So that no part could be removed without 
Infringement of the general symmetry. 
In operating this great change, I claim 
To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 
If not, strike home, — my life is compromised. 
And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 
Than live another day to act the tyrant 
As delegate of tyrants : such I am not, 
And never have been — read it in our annals; 
I can appeal to my past government 
In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 
If I were an oppressor, or a man 
Feeling and thinking for my fellow men. 
Haply had I been what the senate sought, 
A thing of robes and trinkets, di?;ened out 
To sit in state as for a sovereign s picture ; 
A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 
A stickler for the Senate and " the Forty," 
A sceptic of all measures which had not 
The sanction of " the Ten," a council-fiwner, 
A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 
Fostered the wretch who stung me. What I 

suffer 
Has reached me through my pity for the peo- 
ple; 
That many know, and they who know not yet 
Will one day learn : meantmie I do devote, 
Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 

1 [MS.— 

" But all the worst sins of the Spartan state."] 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



551 



My present power such as it is, not that 
Of Doge, but ot a man who has been great 
Before he was degraded to a Doge, 
And still has individual means and mind; 
I stake my fame (and I had fame) — my 

breath — 
(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) 
My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this 

cast! 
Sucii as I am, I offer me to you 
And to your chiefs, accept me or reject me, 
A Prince who fain would be a citizen 
Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be 

so. 
Cal. Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be 

free! 
Consp. Long live Faliero ! 
/. Ber. Comrades ! did I well ? 

Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 
Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor 

place 
For exultation. Am I one of you? 

Cal. Ay, and the first amongst us, as thou 

hast been 
Of Venice — be our general and chief. 

Doge. Chief I — general ! — I was general at 

Zara, 
And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in 

Venice : 

I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 

To lead a band of patriots : when I lay 

Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
"lis not to put on others, but to be 
Mate to my fellows — but now to the point : 
Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
'Tis bold, but feasible if I assist it. 
And must be set in motion instantly. 

Cal. E'en when thou wilt. Is it not so, my 

friends ? 
I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
When shall it be then ? 

Doge. At sunrise. 

Ber. So soon ? 

Doge. So soon? — so late — each hour 

accumulates 
Peril on peril, and the more so now 
Since I have mingled with you ; — know you not 
The Council, and " the Ten ? " the spies, the 

eyes 
Of the patricians dubious of their slaves. 
And now more dubious of the prince they 

have made one ? 
I tell you, you must strike, and suddenly. 
Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads will 

follow. 
Cal. With all my soul and sword, I yield 

assent. 
Our companies are ready, sixty each. 
And all now under arms by Israel's order; 
Each at their different place of rendezvous, 
And vigilant, expectant of some blow; 
Let each repair for action to his post! 



And now, my lord, the signal ? 

Doge. When you hear 

The great bell of Saint Mark's, which may not 

be 
Strugk without special order of the Doge 
(The last poor privilege they leave their 

prince), 
March on Saint Mark's ! 

/. Ber. And there ? — 

Doge. By diffen nt routes 

Let your march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, and stiii 
Upon the way let your cry be of war 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
Discerned before the port; form round the 

palace. 
Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
My nephew and the clients of our house. 
Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on. 
Shout ye, " Saint Mark! — the foe is on our 

waters ! " 
Cal. I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 
Doge. All the patricians flocking to the 

Council, 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread 

signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud 

tower,) 
W^ill then be gathered in unto the harvest. 
And we will reap them with the sword for 

sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
'Twill be but to be taken faint and single. 
When the majority are put to rest. 

Cal. Would that the hour were come ! we 

will not scotch, 
But kill. 

Ber. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
Would now repeat the question which I asked 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter? 
Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be 

sure. 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

Consp. All! all! 

Is this a time to talk of pity ? when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feigned it ? 
/. Ber. Bertram, 

This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause! 
Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
Some for escape, they live but to avengj 
The fallen ? and how distinguish now the 

innocent 
From out the guilty ? all their acts are otie — 
A single emanation from one body. 
Together knit for our oppression ! 'Tis 
Much that we let their children live ; 1 doubt 
If all of these even should be set apart : 



$52 



MARINO FALTER 0, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act nt. 



Tlie liunler may reserve some single cub 
From out the tiger's litter, but who e'er 
Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam, 
Unless to perish by their fangs ? however, 
I will abide hy Doge Faliero's counsel : . 
Let him decide if any should be saved. 
Doge. Ask me not — tempt me not with 

such a question — 
Decide yourselves. 

/. Ber. You know their private virtues 

Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppression. 
Have made them deadly ; if there be amongst 

them 
One who deserves to be repealed, pronounce. 
Doge. Dolfino's father was my friend, and 

Lando 
Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro 

shared i 
My Genoese embassy : I saved the life 
Of Veniero — ^shall I save it twice ? 
Would that I could save them and Venice 

also ! 
All these men, or their fathers, were my 

friends 
Till they became my subjects ; then fell from 

me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown 

flower. 
And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk. 
Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing; 
So, as they let me wither, let them perish ! 
Cal. They cannot coexist with Venice' free- 
dom ! 
Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our 

mutual mass 
Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 2 
What fatal poison to the springs of life. 
To human ties, and all that's good and dear. 
Lurks in the present institutes of Venice : 
All these men were my friends ; I loved them, 

they 
Requited honorably my regards ; 
We served and fought; we smiled and wept 

in concert ; 
We revelled or we sorrowed side by side ; 
We made alliances of blood and marriage; 
We grew in years and honors fairly, — till 
Their ov/n desire, not my ambition, made 
Them choose me for their prince, and then 

farewell ! 
Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 



1 [MS.— 
• Foughtby „yside,a„d j J'l^g— ^l \ shared. 



My 



Genoese embassy ; 
mission to the Pope 



. I I saved the life," etc.] 



•>■ [MS.— 

Bear witness with me ! ye who hear and know, 
And feel our mutual mass of many wrongs."] 



In common ! and sweet bonds which link old 

friendships. 
When the survivors of long years and actions. 
Which now belong to history, soothe the 

days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other. 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
Of half a century on his brother's brow. 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth, 
Flit round them whispering of the days gone 

And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band. 
Which once were one and many, still retain 
A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 
Of deeds that else were silent, save on 

marble 

Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do this deed ? 3 
I. Ber. My lord, you are much moved: it 

is not now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

Doge. Your patience 

A moment — I recede not: mark with me 
The gloomy vices of this government. 
From the hour that made me Doge, the Doge 

THEY made me — 
Farewell the past ! I died to all that had 

been. 
Or rather they to me : no friends, no kind- 
ness, 
No privacy of life — all were cut off: 
They came not near me, such approach gave 

umbrage. 
They could not love me, such was not the law ; 
They thwarted me, 'twas the state's policy; 
They baffled me, 'twas a patrician's duty ; 
They wronged me, for such was to right the 

state ; 
They could not right me, that would give 

suspicion ; 
So that I was a slave to my own subjects ; 
So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 
Begirt with spies for guards — with robes for 

power — 
With pomp for freedom — gaolers for a 

council — 



3 [The Doge is at last ushered into the presence 
of the conspirators, who are at first disposed to sac- 
rifice both him and his introducer; but are pacified 
and converted by a speech of three pages, which is 
not very good: and then they put it to him to say, 
whether any of the devoted senate shall be spared 
in the impending massacre. He says — 
' ' Ask me not — tempt me not with such a question — 

Decide yourselves." — 
But, on being further pressed, he, in these pas- 
sages, gives way to feelings most natural to his own 
condition, but by no means calculated to recommend 
him to his new associates: and afterwards, when 
he is left alone with the chief conspirator, the con- 
trast of their situation is still more finely and forci- 
bly elicited. — 7eff'»'^y^ 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALTER O, DOGE OF VENICE. 



553 



Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life! 

I had one only fount of quiet left, 

And that they poisoned ! My pure household 

godsi 
Were shivered on my hearth, and o'er their 

shrine 
Sate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 
/. Ber. You have been deeply wronged, and 

now shall be 
Nobly avenged before another night. 
Doge. I had borne all — it hurt me, but I 

bore it — 
Till this last running over of the cup 
Of bitterness — until this last loud insult. 
Not only unredressed, but sanctioned ; then, 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me — 
The feelings which they crushed for me, long, 

long 
Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! 
Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
Their friend and made a sovereign, as boys 

make 
Playthings, to do their pleasure — and be 

broken ! 
I from that hour have seen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear; 
They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
To me, then, these men have no private life. 
Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others ; 
As senators for arbitrary acts 
Amenable, I look on them — as such 
Let them be dealt upon.2 

Cal. And now to action 1 

Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may this be 
The last night of mere words: I'd fain be do- 
ing! 
Saint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me 

wakeful ! 
/. Ber. Disperse then to your posts : be 

firm and vigilant ; 
Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we 

claim. 



^ [" I could have forgiven the dagger or the 
bowl, any thing, but the deliberate desolation piled 
upon me, when 1 stood alone upon my hearth, with 
my household gods shivered around me. Do you 
suppose I have forgotten or forgiven it? It has, 
comparatively, swallowed up in me every other 
feeling, and 1 am only a spectator upon earth till a 
tenfold opportunity offers. It may come yet." — 
Byron's Letters, 1819.] 

2 [The struggle of feelings with which the Doge 
undertakes the conspiracy is admirably contrasted 
w^ith the ferocious eagerness of his low-born asso- 
ciates; and only loses its effect because we cannot 
but be sensible that the man who felt thus, could 
not have gone on with his guilty project, unless 
stimulated by some greater and more accumulated 
injuries than are, in the course of the tragedy, 
brought before the perception of the reader. — 
Neber.\ 



This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
Watch tor the signal, and then march. I go 
To join my band ; let each be prompt to 

marshal 
His separate charge : the Doge will now re- 
turn 
To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 
Cat. Doge, when I greet you next, my 
homage to you 
Shall be the head of Steno on this sword! 
Doge. No ; let him be reserved unto the 
last. 
Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey ,3 
Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
Was a mere ebullition of the vice, 
The general corruption generated 
By the foul aristocracy : he could not — 
He dared not in more honorable days 
Have risked it. I have merged all private 

wrath 
Against him in the thought of our great pur- 
pose. 
A slave insults me — I require his punish- 
ment 
From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 
The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 
Cal. Yet, as the immediate cause of the 
alliance 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 
Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I 
the head ; 
You would but smite the scholar, I the mas- 
ter; 
You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 
I cannot pause on individual hate. 
In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 
Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, 

must blast 
Without distinction, as it fell of yore. 
Where the Dead Sea hath quenched two 
cities' ashes. 
/. Ber. Away, then, to your posts ! I but 
remain 
A moment to accompany the Doge 
To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
Have been upon the scout, and thence I 

hasten 
To where my allotted band is under arms. 
Cal. Farewell, then, — until dawn! 
/. Ber. Success go with you ! 

Consp. We will not fail — Away ! My 
lord, farewell ! * 



3[MS.— 

" Nor turn aside to .strike at such a wretch."] 

* [The great defect of Marino Faliero is, that 
the nature and character of the conspiracy excite 
no interest. It matters little that Lord Byron hns 
been faithful to history, if the event is destitute of a 



554 



MARINO FALTER O, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act III. 



\_The Conspirators salute the DOGE and 
Israel BertUCCIO, and retire, headed 
by Philip Calenuaro. The Doge 
and Israel Bertuccio remain, 
I. Ber. We have them in the toil — it can- 
not fail ! 
Now thou'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt 

make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest : 
Free citizens have struck at kings ere now ; 
Caesars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
Have crushed dictators, as the popular steel 
Has reached patricians : but, until this hour, 
What prince has plotted for his people's free- 
dom ? 
Or risked a life to liberate his subjects ? 
For ever, and for ever, they conspire 
Against the people, to abuse their hands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
On yoke, and slavery and death may whet. 
Not glut, the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; — 'tis great. 
And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt ? 
A moment back, and you were all impa- 
tience ! 
Doge. And is it then decided ! must they 

die? 
/. Ber. Who ? 

Doge. My own friends by blood and cour- 
tesy, 
And many deeds and days — the senators ? 
/. Ber. You passed their sentence, and it 

is a just one. 
Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you ; 
You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchus — 
The rebel's oracle, the people's tribune — 
I blame you not — you act in your vocation ; 



poetic character. Like Alfieri, to whom, in many 
points, his genius approximates, he is fettered by 
an intractable story, which is wholly remote from 
the instincts and feelings of mankind. How ele- 
vated soever may be his diction, how vivid soever 
his coloring, a moral truth is wanting. That 
charm, so difficult to define, so easy to apprehend, 
which, diffused over the scene, excites in generous 
bosoms an exalted enthusiasm for the great in- 
terests of humanity. This is the poesy of history. 
It is the charm of the William Tell of Schiller; it 
is felt in the awful plot of Hrutus, and, to a certain 
degree, in the conspiracy of Pierre and Jaffier; for 
the end and purpose of these conspiracies were, to 
redeem their country from insult and oppression. 
But in Marino Faliero's attempt against the state, 
we contemplate nothing but the project of a san- 
guinary ruffian, seeking to grasp unlimited author- 
ity, and making, after the established precedents of 
all usurpers, the wrongs and sufferings of the 
commonalty his pretence; while, in another aspect 
of his character, we see him goaded, by an imag- 
ined injury, into an enterprise which would have 
inundated Venice with her best blood. Is this a 
sublime spectacle, calculated to purge the mind, 
according to the aphorism of Aristotle, by means of 
terror or pity ? — Eel. Rev.\ 



They smote you, and oppressed you, and 

despised you; 
So they have me : but you ne'er spake with 

them ; 
You never broke their bread, nor shared their 

salt; 
You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 
You grew not up with them, nor laughed, nor 

wept. 
Nor held a revel in their company ; 
Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claimed 

their smile 
In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I 

have : 
These hairs of mine are gray, and so are 

theirs. 
The elders of the council : I remember 
When all our locks were like the raven's wing, 
As we went forth to take our prey around 
The isles wrung from the false Mahometan ; 
And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood ? 
Each stab to them will seem my suicide.i 
/. Ber. Doge ! Doge 1 this vacillation is 

unworthy 
A child; if you are not in second childhood, 
Call back your nerves to your own purpose, 

nor 
Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! 

I'd rather 
Forego even now, or fail in our intent. 
Than see the man I venerate subside 
From high resolves into such shallow weak- 
ness! 
You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
Your own and that of others ; can you shrink 

then 
From a few drops from veins of hoary vam- 
pires. 
Who but give back what they have drained 

from millions ? 



1 [The unmixed selfishness of the motives with 
which the Doge accedes to the plot perpetually 
escapes him. Not that he is wholly untouched by 
the compunctious visitings of nature. But the 
fearful unity of such a character is broken by assign- 
ing to it the throbbings and the pangs of human 
feelings, and by making him recoil with affright 
from slaughter and desolation. In the roar and 
whirlwind of the mighty passions which precede 
the acting of a dreadful plot, it is wholly unreason- 
able and out of keeping to put into his mouth the 
sentimental effusions of affectionate pity for his 
friends, whom he thinks of rather too late to give 
these touches of remorse and mercy any other char- 
acter than that of hypocritical whining. The senti- 
ments are certainly good, but lamentably out of 
time and place, and remind us of Scarron's remark 
upon the moralizing Phlegyas in the infernal re- 
gions, — 

" Cette sentence est vrai et belle, 
Mais dans enfer de quoi sert-elle?" 
Yet though wholly repugnant to dramatic congruity, 
the passage has great poetic power. — Eel. Hev.] 



SCENfe ll.] 



MARINO FAUERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



555 



Doge. Bear with me ! Step by step, and 
blow on blow, 
I will divide witli you ; think not I waver : 
Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
But let these last and lingering thoughts have 

way 
To which you only and the Night are con- 
scious, 
And both regardless ; when the hour arrives, 
"ris mine to sound the knell, and strike the 

blow. 
Which shall unpeople many palaces, 
And hew the highest genealogic trees 
Down to the earth, strewed with their bleed- 
ing fruit. 
And crush their blossoms into barrenness : 
This will I — must I — have I sworn to do, 
Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 
But still I quiver to behold what I 
Must he, and think what I have been 1 Bear 
with me. 
/. Ber. Re-man your breast ; I feel no such 
remorse, 
I understand it not : why should you change ? 
You acted, and you act, on your free will. 
Doire. Av, there it is — you feel not, nor 
do I, 
Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder; 
You feel not — you go to this butcher-work 
As if these high-born men were steers for 

shambles ! 
When all is over, you'll be free and merry. 
And calmly wash those hands incarnadine; 
But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
In this surpassmg masSacre, shall be. 
Shall see and feel — oh God I oh God ! 'tis true. 
And thou dost well to answer that it was 
" My own free will and act," and yet you err. 
For I IV ll do this I Doubt not — fear not ; I 
Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 
And yet I act no more on my free will. 
Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 
But there is ^^f// within me and around. 
And like the demon who believes and trem- 
bles. 
Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 
Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 
To gather the retainers of our house. 
Doubt not, Saint Mark's great bell shall wake 

all Venice, 
Except her slaughtered senate : ere the sun 
Be broad upon the Adriatic there 
Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall 

drown 
The roar of waters in the cry of blood 1 
I am resolved — come on. 

/. Ber. With all my soul I 

Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
Remember what these men have dealt to 
thee. 



And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
By ages of prtjsperity and freedom 
To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 
Would have depopulated empires, nor 
Have felt the strange compunction which 

hath wrung you 
To punish a few traitors to the people. 
Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 
Doge. Man, thou hast struck upon the 

chord which jars 
All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

\Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I.l — Palazzo of the patrician LlONI, 
LlONI laying aside the mask and cloak 
which the Venetian Nobles wore in public, 
attended by a Domestic. 

Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this 

revel, 
The gayest we have held for many moons, 
And yet, I know not why, it cheered me not; 
I here came a heaviness across my heart, 
Which, in the lightest movement of the 

dance, 
Though eye to eye, and hand in hand united 
Even with the lady of my love, oppressed me. 
And through my spirit chilled my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I 

strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 'twould not 

be; 
Through all the music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night, 
Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark : 
So that I left the festival before 
It reached its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
The lamp within my chamber. 

Ant. ' Yes, my lord : 

Command you no i cfrcshment ? 

1 [The fourth act opens with the most poetical 
and brilliantly written scene in the play — though 
it is a soliloquy, and altogether alien from the busi- 
ness of the piece. Lioni, a young nobleman, returns 
home from a splendid ass'jmhly, rather out of spirits; 
and, opening his palace window for air, contrasts the 
tranquillity of the night scene which lies before him, 
with the ieverish turbulence and glittering enchant- 
ments of that which he has just quilted. Nothing can 
be finer than this picture, in both its compartrnents. 
There is a truth and a luxuriance in the description 
of the rout, which mark at once the hand of a 
master, and raise it to a very high rank as a piece 
of poetical painting; — while the moonliaht view 
from the window is equally grand and beautiful.— 
7effrey.-\ 



556 



MARIMO FALIERO, DOGE OF VEMICR. 



[act IV. 



Lioni. Nought, save sleep, 

Which will not be commanded. Let me hope 

It, [A'-tv/ Antonio. 

Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try 
Whether the air will calm my spirits : 'tis 
A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave. 
And the broad moon has brightened. What 

a stillness! \_Goes to an open lattice. 

And what a contrast with the scene I left. 
Where the tall torches' glare, and silver 

lamps' 
More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
A dazzling mass of artificial light, 
Which showed all things, but nothing as they 

were. 
There age essaying to recall the past. 
After long striving for the hues of youth 
At the sad labor of the toilet, and 
Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
Pranked forth in all the pride of ornament. 
Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
Believed itself forgotten, and was fooled. 
There Youth, which needed not, nor thought 

of such 
Vain adjuncts, lavished its true bloom, and 

health, 
And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
Of flushed and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure. 
And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 
On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which 

should not 
Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
The music, and the banquet, and the wine — 
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flow- 
ers — 
The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments — 
The white arms and the raven hair — the 

braids 
And bracelets ; swanlike bosoms, and the 

necklace, 
An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes, 
Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and 

heaven ; 
The many-twinkling feet so small and sylph- 
like. 
Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
Of the fair forms which terminate so well — 
All the delusion of the dizzy scene. 
Its false and true enchantments — art and 

nature, 
Which swam before my giddy eyes, that drank 
The sight of beauty as the parched pilgrim's 
On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 
A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 
Are gone. — Around me are the stars and 

waters — 



Worlds mirrored in the ocean, goodlier sight 
Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 
And the great element, which is to space 
What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 
Softened with the first breathings of the 

spring ; 
The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 
Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 
Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces. 
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly 

fronts, 
Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles, 
Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 
Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 
Reared up from out the waters, scarce less 

strangely 
Than those more massy and mysterious giants 
Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics, 
Which point in Egypt's plains to times that 

have 
No other record. All is gentle : nought 
Stirs rudely; but, congenial with the night, 
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 
The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 
Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress. 
And cautious opening of the casement, show- 
ing 
That he is not unheard ; while her young 

hand. 
Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part, 
So delicately white, it trembles in 
The act of opening the forbidden lattice, 
To let in love through music, makes his heart 
Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; the dash 
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 
Of the far lights of skimming gondolas. 
And the responsive voices of the choir 
Of boatmen answermg back with verse for 

verse ; 
Some dusky shadow checkering the Rialto ; 
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering 

spire. 
Are all the sights and sounds which here per- 
vade 
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city — 
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm ! 
I thank thee. Night! for thou hast chased 

away 
Those horrid bodements which, amidst the 

throng, 
I could not dissipate : and with the blessing 
Of thy benign and quiet influence, — 
Now will I to my couch, although to rest 

Is almost wronging such a night as this 

\A knocking is heard from -without. 
Hark ! what is that ? or who at such a mo- 
ment ? 

Enter ANTONIO. 

Ant. My lord, a man without, on urgent 
business. 
Implores to be admitted. 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FAUERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



557 



.Is he a stranger ? 
is muffled in his cloak, but 



Lloni. 

Ant. His fa 
both 
His voice and gestures seem familiar to me ; 
I craved his name, but this he seemed reluc- 
tant 
To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly - 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 

Lioni. 'Tis a strange hour, and a sus- 
picious bearing! 
And yet there is slight peril : 'tis not in 
Their houses noble men are struck at ; still, 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice, 'twill be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him, and retire; but call up quickly 
Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
Who can this man be ? — 

{Exit Antonio, and returns with BER- 
TRAM mvj^led. 

Ber. My good lord Lioni, 

I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
This menial hence ; 1 would be private with 
you. 

Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — 
Go, Antonio. {^Exit ANTONIO. 

Now. stranger, what would you at such an 
hour ? 

Ber. {discovering himself). A boon, my 
noble patron ; you have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
This one, and make him happy. 

Lioni. Thou hast kiiown me 

From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
Beseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
Ere thy request was heard, but that the hour, 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried 

mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
What has occurred, some rash and sudden 

broil? — 
A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab ? — 
Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety; 
But then thou must wuhdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance. 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws, 

Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 

Lioni. But what ? You have not 

Raised a rash hand against one of our order ? 
If so, withdraw and fiy, and own it not ; 
I would not slay — but then I must not save 

thee ! 
He who has shed patrician blood 

Ber. I come 

To save patrician blood, and not to shed it 1 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two- 
edged sword. 
And is about to take, instead of sand, 



The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour- 
glass ! — 
Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 

Lioni. Wherefore not ? — 

Wha* means this menace ? 

Ber. Do not seek its meaning. 

But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
Whate'er be stirring; though the roar of 

crowds — 
The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 
The groans of men — the clash of arms — 

the sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
Peal in one wide alarum ! — Go not forth 
Until the tocsin's silent, nor even then 
Till I return 1 

Lioni. Again, what does this mean ? 

Ber. Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
The souls of thy great fiithers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave behind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
By all thou hast of blessed in hope or mem- 
ory — 
By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
Good I would now repay with greater good. 
Remain within — trust to thy household gods. 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost! 

Lioni. I am indeed already lost in wonder; 
Surely thou ravest ! what have / to dread ? 
Who are my foes ? or if there be such, why 
Art thou leagued with them ? — thou! or if so 

leagued, 
Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
And not before ? 

Ber. I cannot answer this. 

Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning? 

Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle 
threats, 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Ber. Say not so ! 

Once more, art thou deterinined to go forth ? 

Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which 
shall impede me ! 

Ber. Then Heaven have mercy on thy 
soul 1 — Farewell ! [ Going. 

Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than 
my own safety 
Which makes me call thee back ; we must 

not part thus : 
Bertram I have known thee long. 

Ber. From childhood, signor, 

You have been my protector: in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 
Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
Its cold prerogative, we played together; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were min- 
gled oft ; 



558 



MARINO FALTER O, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act IV. 



My father was your father s client, I 
His son's scarce less than foster-brother ; years 
Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! 
Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours and 
this! 
Lio/ii. Bertram, 'tis thou who hast forgot- 
ten them. 
Ber. Nor now, nor ever; whatsoe'er be- 
tide, 
I would have saved you : when to manhood's 

growth 
We sprung, and you, devoted to the state. 
As suits your station, the more humble Ber- 
tram 
Was left unto the labors of the humble. 
Still you forsook me nor ; and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, 'twas no fault of him 
Who ofttimes rescued and supported me 
When struggling with the tides of circum- 
stance 
Which bear away the weaker : noble blood 
Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow senators were like thee ! 
Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against 

the senate ? 
Ber. Nothing. 

Lioni. I know that there are angry spirits 
And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason. 
Who lurk m narrow places, and walk out 
Mutfied to w^iiisper curses to the night; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
i* id desperate libertines who brawl in taverns ; 
Thou herdest not with such : 'tis true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
What hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
Andhueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions. 
Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at 

war 
To waste thee. 

Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 

On the accursed tyranny which rides i 
The very air in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
Wiiich sweeps the soul deliriously from life! 
Lioni. Some villains have been tampering 
with thee, Bertram ; 
This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 
Some wretcn has made thee drunk with dis- 
affection. 
But thou must not be lost so ; tliou W€rt good 
And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 
As vice and villany would put thee to: 
Confess — confide in me — thou knovv'st my 

nature — 
What is it thou and thine are bound to do. 
Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 

1 [MS. - 
" On the accursed tyranny which taints."] 



Of him who was a friend unto thy father, 

So that our good-will is a heritage 

We should bequeathe to our posterity 

Such as ourselves received it, or augmented ; 

I say, what is it thou must do, that I 

Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the 

• house 
Like a sick girl ? 
Ber. Nay, question me no further: 

I must be gone. 

Lioni. And I be murdered! — say. 

Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Ber- 
tram ? 
Ber. Who talks of murder ? what said I 
of murder ? — 
'Tis false ! I did not utter such a word. 
Lioni. Thou didst not; but from out thy 
wolfish eye, 
So changed from what I knew it, there glares 

forth 
The gladiator. If juy life's thine object, 
Take it — I am unarmed, — and then away! 
I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
As the capricious mercy of such things 
As thou and those who have set thee to thy 
task-work. 
Ber. Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril 
mine; 
Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 
Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, 
Bertram ; 
I am not worthy to be singled out 
From such exalted hecatombs — who are they 
That are in danger, and that make the dan- 
ger ? 
Ber. Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
Divided like a house against itself, 
And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight! 
Lioni. More mysteries, and awful ones ! 
But now 
Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out. 
And thou art safe and glorious; for 'tis more 
Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark 

too — 
Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
How would it look to see upon a spear 
The head of him whose heart was open to 

thee, 
Borne by thy hand before the shuddering 

people ? 
And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
Whate'er tlie peril or the penalty 
Of thy denunciation, I go forth. 
Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
The consequence of all which led thee hereS 
Ber. Is there no way to save thee? min- 
utes fly, 
And thou art lost ! — thou! my sole benefactor. 
The only being who was constant to me 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



559 



Through every change. Yet, make me not a 

traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honor ! 

Lioni. Where 

Can lie the honor in a league of murder ? 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 
Ber. A league is still a compact, and more 

binding 
In honest hearts when words must stand for 

law ; 
And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
He whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 
Lioni. And who will strike the steel to 

mine ? 
Ber. Not I ; 

I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Thou must not die! and think 

how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives. 
Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thou miscall'st me; — once, 

once more 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 
Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go 

forth. 
Be7-. Then perish Venice rather than my 

friend ! 
I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee ! 
Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's savior and 

the state's! — 
Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges 

for 
Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay, 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee, 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

Ber. I have thought again : it must not be 

— I love thee — 
Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the 

proof, 
Not least though last ; but having done my 

duty 
By thee, I now must do it by my country ! 
Farewell — we meet no more in life! — fare- 
well ! 
JJoni. What, ho ! — Antonio — Pedro — 

to the door! 
See that none pass — arrest this man ! 

Enter ANTONIO and other armed Domestics, 
who seize BERTRAM. 

Lioni {continues). Take care 

He hath no harm ; bring me my sword and 

cloak, 
And man the gondola with four oars — 
quick— {Exit ANTONIO. 

We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
And send for Marc Cornaro : — fear not, Ber- 
tram : 



This needful violence is for thy safety. 
No less than for the general weal. 

Ber. Where wouldst thou 

Bear me a prisoner ? 

Lioni. Firstly to " the Ten ; " 

Next to the Doge. 

Ber. To the Doge ? 

Lioni. Assuredly : 

Is he not chief of the state ? 

Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 

Lioni. What mean you ? — but we'll know 
anon. 

Ber. Art sure ? 

Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make ; 
and if 
They fail, you know " the Ten" and their 

tribunal, 
And that St. Mark's has dungeons, and the 

dungeons 
A rack. 

Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One more such 

word 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
You think to doom to me. 

Rehiter ANTONIO. 

Ant. The bark is ready. 

My lord, and all prepared. 

Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 

Bertram, I'll reason with thee as we go 
To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. [Exeunt 

SCENE 1 1 ,— The Ducal Palace. — The 
Doge's Apartment. 

The DOGE and his nephew BERTUCCIO 
Faliero. 

Doge. Are all the people of our house in 

muster? 
Ber. E. They are arrayed, and eager for 
the signal, 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo.i 
I come for your last orders. 

Doge. It had been 

As well had there been time to have got to- 
gether, 
From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. 
Ber. E. Methinks, my lord, 'tis better as it 
is : 
A sudden swelling of our retinue 
Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce 

and trusty. 
The vassals of that district are too rude 
And quick in quarrel to have long maintained 
The secret discipline we need for such 
A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 

Doge. True ; but when once the signal has 
been given. 
These are the men for such an enterprisej 

' The Doge's family pnlace. 



560 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act IV. 



These city slaves have all their private bias, 
Their prejudice against or for this noble, 
Which may induce them to o'erdo or spare 
Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce 

peasants, 
Serfs of my county of Val di Marino, 
Would do the bidding of their lord without 
Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 
Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 
A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 
They are not used to start at those vain names. 
Nor bow the knee before a civic senate; 
A chief in armor is their Suzerain, 
And not a thing in robes. 

Ber. F. We are enough ; 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

Doge. Well, 

The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service, 
Done in the field, commend me to my peas- 
ants : 
They made the sun shine through the host of 

Huns 
When sallow burghers slunk back to their 

tents. 
And cowered to hear their own victorious 

trumpet. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
These citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
But if there's much to do, you'll wish with me, 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

Ber. F. Thus thinking, I must marvel you 
resolve 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

Doge. Such blows 

Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
I had o'ermastered the weak false remorse 
Which yearned about my heart, too fondly 

yielding 
A moment to the feelings of old days, 
I was most fain to strike; ami, firstly, that 
I might not yield again to such emotions ; 
And, secondly, because of all these men, 
Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
I know not well the courage or the faith : 
To-day might find 'mongst them a traitor to 

us, 
As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 
But once in, with their hilts hot in their hands. 
They must 07t for their own sakes ; one stroke 

struck, 
And the. mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
Which ever lurks somewhere in human 

hearts. 
Though circumstance may keep it in abey- 
ance. 
Will urge the rest on like to wolves; the sight 
Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more. 
As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel ; 
And you will find a harder task to quell 
Than urge them when they /^az'^ commenced, 
but 'tiU 



That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a 

shadow. 
Are capable of turning them aside. — 
How goes the night? 
Ber. F. Almost upon the dawn. 

Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the 

bell. 
Are the men posted? 

Ber. F. By this time they are, 

But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through me in 

person. 
Doge. 'Tis well. — Will the morn never 

put to rest 
These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the 

heavens? 
I am settled and bound up, and being so, 
The very effort which it cost me to 
Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with 

fire, 
Now leaves my mind more steady. I have 

wept. 
And trembled at the thought of this dread 

duty ; 
But now I have put down all idle passion. 
And look the growing tempest in the face, 
As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman?) it hath 

been 
A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
Beheld their fate merged in the approaching 

fight, 
Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to 

spill 
The rank polluted current from the veins 
Of a few bloated despots needed more 
To steel me to a purpose such as made 
Timoleon immortal, than to face 
The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

Ber. F. It gladdens me to see yourformei 

wisdom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
You were decided. 

Doge. It was ever thus 

With me ; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
The hour of action I have stood as calm 
As were the dead who lay around me : this 
They knew who made me what I am, and 

trusted 
To the subduing power which I preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
But they were not aware that there are things 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
And not an impulse of mere anger; though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured 

souls 
Oft do a public right with private wrong. 
And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
Methinks the day breaks — is it not so? look, 



SCENE ii:] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



561 



Thine evis are clear with youth; — the air 

puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me, 
The sea looks grayer through the lattice. 

Ber. F. True, 

The morn is dappling in the sky.i 

Doge. Away then ! 

See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from Saint Mark's, march on the 

palace 
With all our house's strength ; here I will 

meet you — 
The Sixteen and their companies will move 
In separate columns at theselt-same moment — 
Be sure you post yourself at the great gate : 
I would not trust " the Ten " except to us — 
The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
Glut the more careless swords of those leagued 

with us. 
Remember that the cry is still " Saint Mark ! 
The Genoese are come — ho! to the rescue! 
Saint Mark and Liberty!" — Now — now to 

action ! 
Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we 

will meet 
In freedom and true sovereignty, or never! 
Doge. Come hither, my Bertuccio — one 

embrace — 
Speed, for the day grows broader — Send me 

soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound 

— sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's ! 

\F:xit Bertuccio Faliero. 
Doge {solus). He is gone,"'^ 

And on each footstep moves a life. — 'Tis done. 
Now the destroying angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial. 
Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
And for a moment, poised in middle air. 
Suspends the motion of his mighty wings. 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou 

day! 
That slowly walk'st the waters ! march — 

march on — 
I would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea- 
waves ! 
I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too. 
With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnisli gore, 
While tliat of Venicefiowed too, but victorious 



1 [MS. — " The night is clearing from the sky."] 

2 [At last the moment arrives when the bell is to 
be sounded, and the whole of the conspiring bands 
are watching in impatience for the signal. The 
nephew of the Doge, and the heir of his house (for 
he is childless), leaves Faliero in his palace, and 
goes to strike with his own hand the fatal summons. 
'J'he Doge is left alone: and English poetry, we 
think, contains few passages superior to that which 
follows. — Lockhart.\ 



Now thou must wear an unmixed crimton ; no 
Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
Unto that horrible incarnadine. 
But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
And have I lived to fourscore years for this ? 
I, who was named Preserver of the City ? 
I, at whose name the million's caps were flung 
Into the air, and cri-s from tens of thousands 
Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me bless- 
ings, 
And fame, and length of days — to see this 

day ? 
But this day, black within the calendar. 
Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
To vanquish empires, and refuse their crown ; 
I will resign a crown, and make the state 
Renew its freedom — but oh ! by what means ? 
The noble end must justify them — What 
Are a few drops of human blood ? 'tis false, 
The blood of tyrants is not humar ; they. 
Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on ours, 
Until 'tis time to give them to the tombs 
Which they have made so populous. — Oh 

world! 
Oh men ! what are ye, and cur best designs, 
I'hat we must work by crime to punish crime ? 
And slay as if Death had but this one gate, 
When a few years would make the sword su- 
perfluous ? 
And I, upon the verge of th' unknown realm, 
Yet send so many heralds on before me ? — 
I must not ponder this. \A pause. 

Hark! was there not 
A murmur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martial unison ? 
What phantoms even of sound our wishes 

raise ! 
It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
Why pauses it ? My nephew's messenger 
Should be upon his way to me, and he 
Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower 

portal, 
Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell,3 
Which never knells but for a princely death. 
Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, 
And be this peal its awfuUest and last 
Sound till the strong tower rock! — What! 

silent still ? 
I would go forth, but that my post is here, 
To be the centre of re-union to 
The oft discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
The wavering of the weak, in case of conflict ; 
For if they should do battle, 'twill be here. 
Within the palace, that the strife will thicken : 



3[MS.— 
"Where swings thesullen j I^^V.^^tular bell."] 



562 



MARIMO FAUERO, DOGE OE VENICE. 



[act IV. 



Then here must be my station, as becomes 
The master-mover. Hark ! he comes — he 

comes, 
My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings ? Is he marching ? hath he 

sped ? — 
They\\&x&\ — all's lost — yet will I make an 

effort.i 

Efiter a SiGNOR OF THE NlGHT,2 with 
Guards, etc. etc. 

Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 
Doge. Me ! 

Thy prince, of treason ? — Who are they that 

dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order ? 
Sig. {showiftg his order) . Behold my order 

from the assembled Ten. 
Doge. And where are they, and why assem- 
bled ? no 
Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
Preside there, and that duty's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To the council chamber. 

Sig. Duke ! it may not be : 

Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 
Doge. You dare to disobey me, then ? 
Sig. I serve 

The state, and needs must serve it faithfully; 
My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 
Doge. And till that warrant has my signa- 
ture 
It is illegal, and, as now applied. 
Rebellious — Hast thou weighed well thy life's 

worth, 
That thus you dare assume a lawless function ? 
^7^. 'Tis not my office to reply, but act — 
I am placed here as guard upon thy person. 
And not as judge to hear or to decide. 

Doge {aside). I must gain time — So that 
the storm-bell sound 
All may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — 

speed — speed ! — 
Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
Woe to the vanquished 1 be they prince and 

people. 
Or slaves and senate — 

[ The great bell of Saint Mark's tolls. 
Lo 1 it sounds — it tolls ! 
Doge {aliUid). Hark, Signer of the Night! 
and you, ye hirelings, 
Who wield your mercenary staves in fear. 



1 [A relenting conspirator, whom the contem- 
plative Lioni had formerly befriended, calls to warn 
him of his danger; and is gradually led to betray 
his associates. The plot is crushed in the moment 
of its development, and the Doge arrested in his 
palace. The scene immediately preceding this 
catastrophe is noble and thrilling. — 7effrey.'\ 

2 [" I Signori di Notte " held an important charge 
in the old republic] 



It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal I 
Now, knaves, what ranSom for your lives ? 

Sig. Confusion 

Stand to your arms, and guard the door — 

all's lost 
Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
The officer hath missed his path or purpose. 
Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 
Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
Straight to the tower ; the rest remain with me. 
\^Exit part of the Guard. 
Doge. Wretch ! if thou wouldst have thy 
vile life, implore it ; 
It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth ; 
They never shall return. 

Sig. So let it be ! 

They die then in their duty, as will I. 

Doge. Fool ! the high eagle flies at nobler 
game 
Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on, 
So thou provok'st not peril by resistance, 
And learn (if souls so much obscured can 

bear 
To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 
Sig. And learn thou to be captive — It hath 
ceased, [ The bell ceases to toll. 

The traitorous signal, which was to have set 
The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey — 
The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 
Doi^e {after a pause). All's silent, and all's 

lost ! 
Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me 
As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
Have I not done my duty ? 

Doge. Peace, thou thing ! 

Thou hast done a worthy deed, and earned 

the price 
Of blood, and they who use thee will rewart 

thee. 
But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 
As thou said'st even now — then do thine 

office. 
But let it be in silence, as behooves thee, 
Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 
Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 
Doge {aside). There now is nothing left 
, me save to die; 
And yet how near success ! I would have 

fallen. 
And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 
To miss it thus I 

Enter other SiGNORS OF THE NiGHT, with 
BerTUCCIO FaLIERO prisoner. 

id Sig. We took him in the act 

Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order, 
As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
Had thus begun to sound. 

1st Sig. Are all the passes 

Which lead up to the palace well secured ? 



SCENE II. J 



MARINO FAL/ERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



563 



■2.d Sig. They are — besides, it matters not ; 
the chiefs 
Are all in chains, and some even now on 

trial — 
Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 
Der. F. Uncle ! 

Doge. It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 
The glory hath departed from our house. 
Ber. F. Who would have deemed it ? — 

Ah ! one moment sooner ! 
Doge. That moment would have changed 
the face of ages ; 
This gives us to eternity — We'll meet it 
As men whose triumph is not in success, 
But who can make their own minds all in all. 
Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 'tis 
But a brief passage — I would go alone. 
Yet if they send us, as 'tis like, together. 
Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 
Ber F. I shall not shame you, uncle. 
\st Sig. Lords, our orders 

Are to keep guard on both in separate cham- 
bers. 
Until the council call ye to your trial. 

Doge. Our trial! will they keep their 
mockery up 
Even to the last ? but let them deal upon us. 
As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 
'Tis but a game of mutual homicides, 
Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 
Have won with false dice. — Who hath been 
our Judas ? 
\st Sig. I am not warranted to answer that. 
Ber. F. I'll answer for thee — 'tis a certain 
Bertram, 
Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 
Doge. Bertram, the Bergamask 1 With 
what vile tools 
We operate to slay or save ! This creature. 
Black with a double treason, now will earn 
Rewards and honors, and be stamped in story 
With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph, 
While Manlius, who hurled down the Gauls, 

was cast i 
From the Tarpeian. 

\st Sig. He aspired to treason, 

And sought to rule the state. 

Doge. He saved the state, 

And sought but to reform what he revived — 

But this is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 

\st Sig. Noble Bertuccio, we must now 
remove you 
Into an inner chamber. 

Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 

If we shall meet again in life I know not. 
But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 
Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet 
go forth. 



[MS. 



And do what our frail clay, thus clogged, hath 

failed in ! 
They cannot quench the memory of those 
Who would have hurled them from their 

guilty thrones, 
And such examples will find heirs, though 

distant. 



ACT V. 



Scene \.— The Hall of the Council of Ten 
assembled with the additional Senators, who, 
on the Trials of the Conspirators for the Trea- 
son of Marino Faliero, composed what 
zvas called the Giunta, — Guards, Oncers, 
etc. ^z"^.— Israel Bertuccio and Philip 
Calendaro as /;^z.f(7w^rj. — Bertram, 
LlONI, and Witnesses, etc?' 
The Chief of the Ten, BENINTENDE.3 

Ben. There now rests, after such conviction 

of 
Their manifold and manifest offences. 
But to pronounce on these obdurate men 
The sentence of the law : — a grievous task 
To those who hear, and those who speak. 

Alas! 
That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
Of office should be stigmatized through all 
The years of coming time, as bearing record 
To this most foul and complicated treason 
Against a just and free state, known to all 
The earth as being the Christian bulwark 

'gainst 
The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
The savage Hun, and not less barbarous 

Frank ; 
A city which has opened India's wealth 
To Europe ; the last Roman refuge from 
O'erwhelming Attila; the ocean's queen; 
Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'Tis to sap 
The throne of such a city, these lost men 
Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless 

lives — 
So let them die the death. 

/. Ber. We are prepared ; 

Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. 

Beti. If ye have that to say which would 

obtain 
Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
Will hear you ; if you have aught to confes.-., 
Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 

2 [The fifth Act, which begins with the arraign- 
ment of the original conspirators, is much in the 
style of that of Pierre and liis associates in the old 
play. After them, the Doge is brought in : his 
part is very forcibly written throughout. — Jef- 
frey.'] 

3 [" In the notes to Marino Faliero, it may be as 
well to say, that Benintende was not really of the 
Ten, but merely Grand Chancellor — a separate 
office, though an important one. It was an arbi- 

While Manlius, who hurled back the Gauls," etc.] trary alteratidR of mine." — Byro7is Letters ] 



S64 



MARINO FAUERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act v. 



Ber. F. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 
Ben. Your crimes 

Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
And all which circumstance can add to aid 

them ; 
Yet we would hear from your own lips com- 
plete 
Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive ? 
/. Ber. Justice ! 

Ben. What 

Your object ? 

/. Ber. Freedom ! 

Ben. You are brief, sir. 

/. Ber. So my life grows : I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 

Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt 
brevity 
To brave your judges to postpone the sen- 
tence ? 
/. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and be- 
lieve me, 
I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 
Ben. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 
/. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they have 
wrung from us. 
Or place us there again ; we have still some 

blood left, 
And some slight sense of pain in these 

wrenched limbs: 
But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
And you have left us little life to spend 
Upon your engines, gorged with pangs 

already — 
Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
You would appall your slaves to further slav- 
ery! 
Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
Should overcome the soul into a lie. 
For a short respite — must we bear or die ? 
Ben. Say, who were your accomplices ? 
/. Ber. The Senate ! 

Ben. What do you mean ? 
/. Ber. Ask of the suffering people. 

Whom your patrician crimes have driven to 
crime. 
Ben. You know the Doge ? 
/. Ber. I served with him at Zara 

In the field, when ^yca were pleading here your 

way 
To present office ; we exposed our lives, 
While you but hazarded the lives of others, 
Alike by accusation or defence ; 
And, for the rest, all Venice knows her 

Doge, 
Through his great actions, and the Senate's 
insults. 
Ben. You have held conference with him ? 
/. Ber. I ^m weary — 



Even wearier of your questions than your 

tortures. 
I pray you pass to judgment. 

Ben. It is coming. -. 

And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 
Have you to say why you should not be 
doomed ? 
Cal. I never was a man of many words, 
And now have few left worth the utterance. 

Ben. A further application of yon engine 
May change your tone. 

Ca/. Most true, it zvi// do so ; 

A former application did so ; but 
It will not change my words, or, if it did — 
Ben. What then ? 

Ca/. Will my avowal on yon rack 

Stand good in law ? 

Ben. Assuredly. 

Cal. Whoe'er 

The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 
Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought 

up to trial. 
Ca/. And on this testimony would he per- 
ish ? 
Ben. So your confession be detailed and 
full, 
He will stand here in peril of his life. 

Ca/. Then look well to thy proud self. 
President ! 
For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
I swear that /Aou, and only thou, shalt be 
The traitor I denounce upon that rack. 
If I be stretched there for the second time. 
One oftJie Giunta. Lord President, 'twere 
best proceed to judgment; 
There is no more to be drawn from these 
men. 
Be7i. Unhappy men 1 prepare for instant 
death. 
The nature of your crime — our law — and 

peril 
The state now stands in, leave not an hour's 

respite — 
Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the bal- 
cony 
Of the red columns, where, on festal Thurs- 
day,! 
The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls, 
Let them be justified : and leave exposed 
Their wavering relics, in the place of judg- 
ment. 
To the full view of the assembled people ! — 
And Heaven have mercy on their souls ! 
The Giunta. ' Amen! 

/. Ber. Signers, farewell ! we shall not all 
again 
Meet in one place. 



Ben. 



And lest they should essay 



To stir up the distracted multitude 

i"Giovedi grasso," — "fat or greasy "Thurs- 
day,"— which I cannot literally translate in the 
text, was the day. 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



565 



Guards ! let their mouths be gagged l even in 

the act 
Of execution. — Lead them hence! 

Cal. What ! must we 

Not even say farewell to some fonti friend, 
Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 

Ben. A priest is waiting in the antechamber ; 
But, for your friends, sucli interviews would l)e 
Painful to them, and useless all to you. 

Cal. I knew that we were gagged in life ; 

at least 
All those who had not heart to risk their 

lives 
Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deemed 
That in the last few moments, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to the dying. 

Would not now be denied to us ; but since 

/. Ber. Even let them have their way, 

brave Calendaro ! 
What matter a few syllables ? let's die 
Without the slightest show of favor from 

them ; 
So shall our blood more readily arise 
To heaven against them, and more testify 
To their atrocities, than could a volume 
Spoken or written of our dying words ! 
They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
Our very silence — let them live in fear! — 
Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us 

now 
Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are 

ready. 
Cal. Israel, hadst thou but hearkened unto 

me 
It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 

The coward Bertram, would 

/. Ber. Peace, Calendaro. 

What brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 
Bert. Alas 1 I fain you died in peace with 

me : 
I did not seek this task ; 'twas forced upon 

me : 
Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not 

thus I 
/. Ber. I die and pardon thee I 
Cal. {spitting at h'un)? I die and scorn 

thee! 

{Exeiojt Israel Bertuccio and Philip 
Calendaro, Guards, etc. 

Ben. Now that these criminals have been 
disposed of, 
"Tis time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
Upon the greatest traitor upon record 



1 Historical fact. 

- [" 1 know what Foscolo means, about Calen- 
A7\.xo'?, spittifig -aX Bertram; that's national — the 
objection, I mean. The Italians and French, with 
those ' flags of abomination ' their pocket handker- 
chiefs, spit there, and here, and everywhere else — 
in your face almost, and therefore object to it on 



In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 

The proofs and process are complete ; the 

time 
And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
He now be called in to receive the award ? 
The Giiinta. Ay, ay. 
Ben. Avogadori, order that the Doge 
Be brought before the council. 

One of the Giunta. And the rest, 

When shall they be brought up ? 

Ben. When all the chiefs 

Hav^ been disposed of. Some have fled to 

Chiozza ; 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 
And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, 
As well as in the islands, that we hope 
None will escape to utter in strange lands 
His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the sen- 
ate. 

Enter the DOGE as Prisoner, with Gtiards, 
etc. etc. 

Ben. Doge — for such still you are, and 
by the law 
Must be considered, till the hour shall come 
When you must doff the ducal bonnet from 
That head, which could not wear a crown 

more noble 
Than empires can confer, in quiet honor, 
But it must plot to overthrow your peers. 
Who made you what you are, and quench in 

blood 
A city's glory — we have laid already 
Before you in your chamber at full length, 
By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
Which have appeared against you ; and more 

ample 
Ne'er reared their sanguinary shadows to 
Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
In your defence ? 

Doge. What shall I say to ye, 

Since my defence must be your condemna- 
tion ? 
You are at once offenders and accusers. 
Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
Upon your power. 

Ben. Your chief accomplices 

Having confessed, there is no hope for you. 

Doge. And who be they ? 

Ben. In number many ; but 

The first now stands before you in the court, 
Bertram, of Bergamo, — would you question 
him ? 

Doge {looking at him contemptuously) . No. 

Ben. And two others, Israel Bertuccio, 



the stage as too familiar. But we who spit no- 
where — but in a man's face when we grow savage 
— are not likely to feel this. Remember Mas- 
singer, and Kean's Sir Giles Overreach — 
' Lord! thus I spit at thee and at thy counsel! * " 
Byron s Letters.^ 



566 



MARINO FALTER 0, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act v. 



And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
Their fellowship in treason with the Doge! 
Doge. And where are they ? 
Ben. Gone to their place, and now 

Answering to Heaven for what they did on 
earth. 
Doge. Ah! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone? 
And the quick Cassius of the arsenal ? — 
How did they meet their doom ? 

Ben. Think of your own : 

1 1 is approaching. You decline to plead, then ? 
Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, aior 
Can recognize your legal power to try me. 
Show me the law ! 

Be/i. On great emergencies. 

The law must be remodelled or amended: 
Our fathers had not fixed the punishment 
Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
The sentence against parricide was left 
In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 
That penal, which had neither name nor 

thought 
In their great bosoms : who would have fore- 
seen 
That nature could be filed to such a crime 
As sons 'gainst sires, and princes gainst their 

realms ? 
Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
Become a precedent 'gainst such haught trai- 
tors, 
As would with treason mount to tyranny ; 
Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
They can convert it to a two-edged sword! 
Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye ? 
What's nobler than the signory of Venice ? 
Doge. The signory of Venice! You betrayed 
me — • 

You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are ! 
B'rom my equality with you in birth, 
And my superiority in action. 
You drew me from my honorable toils 
In distant lands — on flood — in field — in 

cities — 
You singled me out like a victim to 
Stand crowned, but bound and helpless, at the 

altar 
Where you alone could minister. I knew 

not — 
I sought not — wished not — dreamed not the 

election. 
Which reached me first at Rome, and I 

obeyed ; 
But found on my arrival, that, besides 
The jealous vigilance which always led you 
'I'o mock and mar your sovereign's best in- 
tents, 
You had, even in the interregnum of 
My journey to the capital, curtailed 
And mutilated the few privileges 
Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 
H;ivc borne, until my verv hearth was stained 
By the pollution of your ribaldry, 



And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you — 

Fit judge in such tribunal ! 

Ben. {^interrupting hint). Michel Steno 

Is here in virtuS of his office, as 
One of the Forty; " the Ten" having craved 
A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
And novel as the present : he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced upon him. 
Because the Doge, who should protect the law 
Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
No punishment of others by the statutes 
Which he himself denies and violates ! 
Doge. His punishment! I rather see him 

there. 
Where he now sits, to glut him with my death, 
Than in the mockery of castigation, 
Which your foul, outward, juggling show of 

justice 
Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
'Twas purity compared with your protection. 
Ben. And can it be, that the great Doge of 

Venice, 
With three parts of a century of years 
And honors on his head, could thus allow 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 
Doge. A spark creates the flame — 'tis the 

last drop 
Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was 

full 
Already : you oppressed the prince and peo- 
ple ; 
I would have freed both, and have failed in 

both : 
The price of such success would have been 

glory, 
Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
As would have made Venetian history 
Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 
When they were freed, and flourished ages 

after. 
And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus: — 
Failing, I know the penalty of failure 
Is present infamy and death — the future 
Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free; 
Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not ; 
I would have shown no mercy, and I seek 

none; 
My life was staked upon a mighty hazard. 
And being lost, take what I would have taken ! 
I would have stood alone amidst your tombs: 
Now you may flock round mine, and trample 

on it. 
As you have done upon my heart while living. 
Ben. You do confess then, and admit the 

justice 
Of our tribunal ? 

Doge. I confess to have failed ; 

Fortune is female : from my youth her favors 
Were not withheld, the fault was mine to hope 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



567 



Her former smiles again at this late hour. 
Be>i. You do not then in aught arraign our 

equity ? 
Do^e. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with 

questions. 
I am resigned to the worst; but in me still 
Have something of the blood of brighter days, 
An.i am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
Further interrogation, which boots nothing, 
Except to turn a trial to debate. 
I shall but answer that which will offend you, 
And please your enemies — a host already; 
'Tis true, these sullen walls should yield no 

echo : 
But walls have ears — nay, more, they have 

tongues ; and if 
Inhere were no other way for truth to o'erleap 

thein,i 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay 

me, 
Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
Tiie secret were too mighty for your souls: 
Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape. 
Suoii my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true rvords are t/iinj^-s, 
Aiid dying men's are things which long outlive, 
And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine. 
If ye would fain survive me ; take this counsel. 
And though too oft ye made me live in wrath. 
Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ; — 
I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
I ask of you, but silence for myself. 
And sentence from the court ! 

Beti. This full admission 

Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth."-^ 
^ Doge. The torture ! you have put me there 

already, 
Daily since I was Doge; but if you will 
Add the corporeal rack, you may : these limbs 
Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
There's that within my heart shall strain your 

engines. 

Ente?- an OFFICER. 

Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Fa- 
" Hero 3 
Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 
Ben. Say, conscript fathers,^ shall she be 
admitted ? 



1 [MS. — *' There were no other way for truth to 

pierce them."] 

2 [MS. — "The torture for the exposure of the 

truth."] 
s [MS.- 
«< XT 1 -. TT I- 1 ^ Doge Faliero's consort. 
Noble Venetians! J ^-^^ ^^^p^^^ ^^^ Duchess."] 

* The Venetian senate took the same title as the 
Roman, of " conscript fathers." 



One of the Giunta. She may have reve- 
lations of importance 
Unto the state, to justify compliance 
With her request. 

Ben. Is this the general will ? 

All. It is. 

Doge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 

Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian' dames ! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honor, as 
Sit here, do well to act m their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
I'll p.irdon thee thy lie, and thy escape, 
And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 

The Duchess enters.^ 

Ben. Lady 1 this just tribunal has resolved, 
Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 
Whatever be its purport, to accord 
A patient hearing with the due respect 
Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and vir- 
tues : 
But you turn pale — ho! there, look to the 

lady! 
Place a chair instantly. 

Ang. A moment's faintness — 

' Tis past ; I pray you pardon me, — I sit not 
In presence of my prince and of my husband, 
While he is on his feet. 
Ben. Your pleasure, lady ? 

Ang. Strange rumors, but most true, if all I 
hear 
And see be sooth, have reached me, and I 

come 
To know^ the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 
The abruptness oHny entrance and my bear- 
ing. 

Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken, 

■'' [The drama, which has the merit, uncommon in 
modern performances, of embodying no episodical 
deformity whatever, now hurries in full career to 
its close. Every thing is despatched with the stern 
decision of a tyrannical aristocracy. There is no 
hope of mercy on any side, — there is no petition, 
— nay, there is no wish for mercy. Even the ple- 
beian conspirators have too much Venetian blood in 
them to be either scared by the approach, or shaken 
in the moment, of death: and, as for the Doge, he 
bears himself as becomes a warrior of sixty years, and 
a deeply insulted prince. At the moment, however, 
which immediately precedes the pronouncing of the 
sentence, admission is asked and obtained by one 
from whom less of the Spartan firmness might have 
been expected. This is Angiolina. She indeed haz- 
ards one fervent prayer to the unbending senaie; but 
she sees in a moment that it is in vain, and she re- 
covers herself on the instant; and turning to her 
lord, who stands calm and collected at the foot of 
the council table, speaks words worthy of him and 
of her. Nothing can be more unexpected, or more 
t beautiful, than the behavior of the young patrician 
I who interrupts their conversation. — Lockhart.\ 



568 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act v. 



With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows — 
Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 
Beii\after a pause). Spare us, and spare 
thyself the repetition 
Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to heaven and man ! 

Aug. Yet speak ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 
Is he condemned ? 
Ben. Alas ! 

Ang. And was he guilty ? 

Beti. Lady ! the natural distraction of 
Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the 

question 
Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
Against a just and paramount tribunal 
Were deep offence. But question even the 

Doge, 
And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

Ang. Is it so ? 

My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's 

friend — 
The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art si- 
lent ! 
Ben. He hath already owned to his own 
guilt, 1 
Nor, as thou see'st, doth he deny it now. 
A7ig. Ay, but he must not die! Spare his 
few years, 
Which grief and shame will soon cut down 

to days ! 
One day of baffled crime must not efface 
Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 
Ben. His doom must be fulfilled without 
remission 
Of time or penalty — 'tis a decree. 
Ang. He hath been guilty, but there may 

be mercy. 
Ben. Not in this case with justice. 
Ang. Alas ! signor. 

He who is only just is cruel ; who 
Upon the earth would live were all judged 
justly ? 
Ben. His punishment is safety to the state. 
Ang. He was a subject, and hath served 
the state ; 
He was your general, and hath saved the state ; 
He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. 
One of the Council. He is a traitor, and be- 
trayed the stLite. 
Ang. And, but for him, there now had 
been no state 
To save or to destroy ; and you who sit 
There to pronounce the death of your deliv- 
erer. 
Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar. 
Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 



[MS.— 

" He hath already granted his own guilt."] 



One of the Council. No, lady, there are 

others who would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery ! 

Ang. If there are so 

Within these walls, thou art not of the number : 

The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! — 

Is there no hope ? 

Ben. Lady, it cannot be. 

Ang. {turning to the Doge). Then die, Fa- 

liero, since it must be so ; 
But w^ith the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a great offence. 
Half-cancelled by the harshness of these men. 
1 would have sued to them — have prayed to 

them — 
Have begged as famished mendicants for 

bread — 
Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
For mercy, and be answered as they answer — 
Had it been fitting for thy name or mine. 
And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
Had not announced the heartless wrath 

within. 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 
Doge. I have lived too long not to know 

how to die ! 
Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
Of seamen to the surge : I would not take 
A life eternal, granted af the hands 
Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 
I sought to free the groaning nations ! 

Michel Steno. Doge, 

A word with thee, and with this noble lady. 
Whom I have grievously offended. Would 
Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, 
Could cancel the inexorable past! 
But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 
I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you, 
And give, however weak, my prayers for 

both. 
Ang. Sage Benintende, now chief judge of 

Venice, 
I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
Ne'er weighed in mind with Lt)redano's 

daughter 
Further than to create a moment's pity 
For such as he is : would that others had 
Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
My honor to a thousand lives, could such 
Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 
A single life of others lost for that 
Which nothing human can impugn — the 

sense 
Of virtue, looking not to what is called 
A good name for reward, but to itself. 
To me the scorner's words were as the wind 
Unto the rock: but as there are — alas! 
Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
Light as the whirlwind on the waters; souls 



SCENE 1.] 



MARINO FALTER 0, DOGE OF VENICE. 



569 



To whom dishonor's shadow is a substance 
More terrible than death, here ;ind hereafter; 
Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, 
And who, though proof against all blandish- 
ments 
Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 
When the proud name on which they pinna- 
cled 
Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the 

eagle 
Of her high aiery ; let what we now 
Behold, and feef, and suffer, be a lesson 
To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 
With beings of a higher order. Insects 
Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 
r the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave ; 
A wife's dishonor was the bane of Troy; 
A wife's dishonor unkinged Rome for ever; 
An injured husband brought the Gauls to 

Clusiuni, 
And thence to Rome, which perished for a 

time ; 
An obscene gesture cost Caligula 
His life, while Earth yet bore his cruelties; 
A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish 

province ; 
And Steno's He, couched in two worthless lines, 
Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 
A senate which hath stood eight hundred 

years. 
Discrowned a prince, cut off his crownless 

head. 
And forged new fetters for a groaning people 1 
Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 
Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this, 
If it so please him — 'twere a pride fit for him 1 
But let him not insult the last hours of 
Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero. 
By the intrusion of his vei-y prayers ; 
Nothing of good can come from such a 

source, 
Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor 

ever. 
We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 
Of human baseness. Pardon is for men. 
And not for reptiles — we have none for 

Steno, 
And no resentment : things like him must 

sting. 
And higher beings suffer ; 'tis the charter 
Of life. The man who dies by the adder's 

fang 
May have the crawler crushed, but feels no 

anger : 
'Twas the worm's nature ; and some men are 

worms 
In soul, more than the living things of tombs.i 



1 [The Duchess is formal and cold, without even 
that degree of love for her old husband which a child 
might have for her parent, or a pupil for her in- 
structor. Even in this her longest and best speech, 
at the most touching moment of the catastrophe, she 



Doge {to Ben.). Signer! complete that 

which you deem your duty. 
Bf/i.. Before we can proceed upon that duty, 
We would request the princess to withdraw; 
'Twill move her too much to be witness to it. 
Af?^. I know it will, and yet I must endure 
it, 
For 'tis a part of mine — I will not quit. 
Except by force, my husband's side. — Pro- 
ceed ! 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear ; 
Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — 

Speak ! 
I have that within which shall o'erinaster all. 

Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
Count of V^al di Marino, Senator, 
And some time General of the Fleet and 

Army, 
Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
Intrusted by the sfate with high employ- 
ments. 
Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 
Convict by many witnesses and proofs. 
And by thine own confession, of the guilt 
Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 
Until this trial — the decree is death. 
Thy goods are confiscate unto the state, 
Thv name is razed from out her records, save 
Upon a public day of thanksgiving 
For this our most miraculous deliverance, 
When thou art noted in our calendars 
With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes. 
And the great enemy of man, as subject 
Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in 

snatching 
Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 
The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be 

painted 
With thine illustrious predecessors, is 
To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 
Flung over these dim words engraved be- 
neath, — 
" This place is of Marino Faliero, 
Decapitated for his crimes." 

Doge. " His crimes ! " 

But let it be so : — it will be in vain. 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted 
name. 



can moralize, in a strain of pedantry less natural to 
a woman than to any other person similarly circum- 
stanced, on lions stung by gnats, Achilles, Helen, 
Lucretia, the siege of Clusium, Caligula, Caaba, and 
Persepolis! The lines are fine in themselves, in- 
deed; and if they had been spoken by Benintende 
as a funeral oration over the Duke's body, or still 
more, perhaps, if they had been spoken by the 
Duke's counsel on his trial, they would have been 
perfectly in place and character. But that is not 
the highest order of female intellect which is dis- 
posed to be long-winded in distress; nor does any 
one, either male or female, who is really and deeply 
affected, find time for wise saws and instances an- 
cient and modern. — Heber.'] 



570 



MARINO FALTER 0, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act v. 



And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
Shall draw more gazers than the thousand 

portraits 
Which glitter round it in their pictured trap- 
pings— 
Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants 1 
"Decapitated for his crimes!'' — What 

crimes ? 
Were it not better to record the facts. 
So that the contemplator might approve, 
Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose ? 
When the beholder knows a Doge conspired. 
Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 
Ben. Time must reply to that ; our sons 
will judge 
Their fathers' judgment, which I now pro- 
nounce. 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap. 
Thou Shalt be led hence to the Giants' Stair- 
case, 
Where thou and all our princes are invested; 
And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
Thy head shall be struck off; and Heaven 

have mercy 
Upon thy soul ! 

Doge. Is this the Giunta's sentence? 

Ben. It is. 

Doge. I can endure it. — And the time ? 

Ben. Must be immediate. — Make thy 

peace with God : 

Within an hour thou must be in His presence. 

Doge. I am already ; and my blood will 

rise 

To Heaven before the souls of those who shed 

it.— 
Are all my lands confiscated ? 

Ben. They are ; 

And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure, 
Except two thousand ducats — these dispose 
of. 
Doge. That's harsh. — I would have fain 
reserved the lands 
Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
In fief perpetual to myself and heirs. 
To portion them (leaving my city spoil, 
My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
Between my consort and my kinsmen. 

Ben. These 

Lie under the state's ban; their chief, thy 

nephew, 
In peril of his own life ; but the council 
Postpones his trial for the present. If 
Thou will'st a state unto thy widowed princess. 
Fear not, for we will do her justice. 

Ang. Signors, 

I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, 

know 
I am devoted unto God alone. 
And take my refuge in the cloister. 
Doge. Come ! 



! The hour may be a hard one, but 'twill end. 
Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 
Ben. You have nought to do, except con- 
fess and die. 
The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare. 
And both await without. — But, above all. 
Think not to speak unto the people ; they 
Are now by thousands swarming at the gates, 
But these are closed : the Ten, the Avogadori, 
Ttie Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
Alone will be beholders of thy doom, 
And they are ready to attend the Doge. 
Doge. The Doge ! 

Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou 
shalt die 
A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 
The separation of that head and trunk. 
That ducal crown and head shall be united. 
Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
To plot with petty traitors ; not so we, 
Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
The dog's death, and the wolf's; but thou 

shalt fall 
As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
By those who feel a proud compassion for thee, 
And mourn even the inevitable death 
Provoked by thy wild wrath, and regal fierce- 
ness. 
Now we remit thee to thy preparation : 
Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
United to thee as thy subjects, and 
Thy senate ; and must now be parted from thee 
As such for ever, on the self-same spot. — 
Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his cham- 
ber. \Exeunt. 

Scene II.— The Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge as Prisoner, and the DuCHESS at- 
tending him. 

Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 'twere 
useless all 
To linger out the miserable minutes ; 
But one pang more, the pang of parting from 

thee. 
And I will leave the few last grains of sand, 
Which yet remain of the accorded hour, 
Still falling — I have done with Time. 

Ang. Alas\ 

And I have been the cause, the unconscious 

cause ; 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union. 
Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, 
Didst promise at his death, thou hast sealed 
thine own. 
Doge. Not so : there was that in my spirit 
ever 
Which shaped out for itself some great re- 
verse : 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



571 



The marvel is, it came not until now — 
And yet it was foretold me. 
An£^. How foretold you ? 

Doge. Long years ago — so long, they are 
a doubt 
In memory, and yet they live in annals : 
When I was in my youth, and served the sen- 
ate 
And signory as podesta and captain 
Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
"^ onveyed the Host aroused my rash young 

anger 
•3y strange delay, and arrogant reply 
To my reproof; I raised my hand and smote 

him 
Until he reeled beneath his holy burden; 
And as he rose from earth again, he raised 
His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards 

Heaven, 
Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen 

from him. 
He turned to me, and said, " The hour will 

come 
When he thou hast o'erthrown shall overthrow 

thee : 
The glory shall depart from out thy house. 
The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, 
And in thy best maturity of mind 
A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee ; i 
Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 
In other men, or mellow into virtues; 
And majesty, which decks all other heads, 
Shall ctovvn to leave thee headless; honors 

shall 
But prove to thee the heralds of destruction. 
And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death, 
But not such death as fits an aged man." 
Thus saying, he passed on. — That hour is 
come. 
Afig. And with this warning couldst thou 
not have striven 
To avert the fatal moment, and atone. 
By penitence for that which thou hadst done ? 
Doge. I own the words went to my heart, 
so much 
That I remembered them amid the maze 
Of life, as if they formed a spectral voice. 
Which shook me in a supernatural dream; 
And I repented ; but 'twas not for me 
To pull in resolution : what must be 
I could not change, and would not fear. — Nay 

more. 
Thou canst not have forgot, what all remem- 
ber, 
That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
On my return from Rome, a mist of such 
Unwonted density went on before 
The bucentaur, like the columnar cloud 



[MS.— 
"A madness of the heart shall rise within."] 



Which ushered Israel out of Egypt, till 
The pilot was misled, and disembarked us 
Between the pillars of SaiiU Mark's, where 'tis 
The custom of the state to put to death 
Its criminals, instead of touching at 
The Riva della Paglia, as the wont is, — 
So that all Venice shuddered at the omen. 

Aug. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
Such things. 

Doge. And yet I find a comfort in 

The thought that these things are the work of 

Fate; 
For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
Or cling to any creed of destiny. 
Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust, 
And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
Of an o'erruling power; they in themselves 
Were all incapable — they could not be 
Victors of him who oft had conquered for 
them ! 
Atig. Employ the minutes left in aspira- 
tions 
Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
Even with these wretches take thy flight to 
Heaven. 
Doge. I am at peace : the peace of certainty 
That a sure hour will come, when their sons' 

sons, 
And this proud city, and these azure waters, 
And all which makes them eminent and 

bright. 
Shall be a desolation and a curse, 
A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel ! 
Ang. Speak not thus now ; the surge of 
passion still 
Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost deceive 
Thyself, and canst not injure them — be 
calmer. 
Doge. I stand within eternity, and see 
Into eternity, and I behold — 
Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 
For the last time — the days which I denounce 
Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
And they who are indvvellers. 

Guai-d {covilng forward) . Doge of Venice, 
The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 
Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina ! — one em- 
brace — 
Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
A fond but fatal husband — love my mem- 
ory — 
I would not ask so much for me still living, 
But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 
Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
Besides, of all the fruit of these long years. 
Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and 

name. 
Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 
Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not 
even 



572 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act \'. 



A little love, or friendship, or esteem, 
No, not enough to extract an epitaph 
From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one hour 
I have uprooted all my former life, 
And outlived every thing, except thy heart, 
The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
With unimpaired but not a clamorous grief i 
Still keep Thou turn'st so pale! — Alas, 

she faints, 
She has no breath, no pulse ! — Guards ! lend 

your aid — 
I carinot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, 
Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
When she shakes off this temporary death, 
I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her 

women — 
One look ! — how cold her hand ! — as cold as 

mine 
Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her, 

And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 

{The Atteiidimts ^/ANGIOLINA enter and 

sun-ound their mistress, who has fainted. 

— Exeunt the DOGE, Guards, etc. etc. 

Scene III.— The Court of the Ducal Palace : 
the outer gates are shut against the people. 

— The Doge enters in his ducal robes, m 
procession with the Council of Ten and other 
Patricians, attended by the Guards, till they 
arrive at the top of the " Giants' Staircase " 
{where the Doges took the oaths) ; the Ex- 

■ ecutioJter is stationed there xvith his sword. 

— On arriving, a Chief of the Ten takes off 
the ducal cap from the Doge's head. 

Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and 
at last 
I am again Marino Faliero : 
'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment. 
Here was I crowned, and here, bear witness. 

Heaven 1 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 
Than I received the fatal ornament. 

One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 
Doge. 'Tis with age, then."^ 

Ben. Faliero! hast thou aught further to 
commend. 
Compatible with justice, to the senate ? 



1 [MS.— 

»• With unimpaired but not outrageous grief."] 
- This was the actual reply of Bailli, maire of 
Paris, to a Frenchman who made him the same re- 
proach on his way to execution, in the earliest part 
of their revolution. I find in reading over (since 
the completion of this tragedy), for the first time 
these six years, " Venice Preserved," a similar re- 
ply on a different occasion by Renault, and other 
coincidences arising from the subject. I need hardly 
remind the gentlest reader, that such coincidences 
must be accidental, from the very facility of their 
dcrecti in by reference to so popular a play on the 
stage and in the closet as Otway's chef-d'oeuvre. 



Doge. I would commend my nephew to 
their mercy, 
My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

Ben. They shall be cared for ; 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

Doge. Unheard of! ay, there's not a his- 
tory 
But shows a thousand crowned conspirators 
Against the people ; but to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were they who fell in such 
a cause ? 

Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge 
of Venice — 
Agis and Faliero ! 

Beti. Hast thou more 

To utter or to do ? 

Doge. May I speak ? 

Ben. Thoumay'st; 

But recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity ,3 
Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
Upon you ! ye blue waves ! which bore my 

banner, 
Ye winds ! which fluttered o'er as if you loved 

it, 
And filled my swelling sails as they were wafted 
To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth. 
Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth, 
Which drank this willing blood from many a 

wound ! 
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to Heaven ! Ye skies, which will re- 
ceive it ! 
Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and 

Thou! 
Who kihdlest and who quenchest suns ! 4 — 

Attest ! 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
Float up from the abyss of time to be. 
And show these eyes, before they close, the 

doom 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 

On her and hers for ever ! Yes, the hours 

Are silently engendering of the day, 

When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark. 

Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield 

Unto a bastard Attila, without 

Shedding so much blood in her last defence 



3 [The last speech of the Doge is a grand pro- 
phetic rant, something strained and elaborate — but 
eloquent and terrible. — Jeffrey.} 

4 [InMS.- 



and Thou! 



Who makest and destroyest suns! "] 



SCENE III.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



573 



As these old veins, oft drained in shielding her, 
Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 
And sold, and be an apjianage to those 
Who shall despise her ! t — She shall stoop 

to be 
A province for an empire, petty town 
In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 
Beggars for nobles,"-^ panders for a people ! 
Tht-n when the Hebrew's in thy palaces,^ 
^rhe Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 
When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 



1 Should the dramalicpicture seem harsh, let the 
reader look to the hisfWrcal, of the period prophe- 
sied, or rather of the few years preceding that 
period. Voltaire calculated their " nostre bene 
merite meretrici " at 12,000 of regulars, without in- 
cluding volunteers and local militia, on what 
authority I know not; but it is, perhaps, the only 
part of the population not decreased. Venice once 
contained two hundred thousand inhabitants: there 
are now about ninety thousand; and these!! few 
individuals can conceive, and none could describe, 
the actual state into which the more than infernal 
tyranny of Austria has plunged this unhappy city. 
From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice 
under the Barbarians, there are some honorable in- 
dividual exceptions. There is Pasquaiigo, the last, 
and, alas! postJiumoiis son of the marriage of the 
Doges with the Adriatic, who fought his frigate 
with far greater gallantry than any of his P'reuch 
coadjutors in the memorable action off Lissa. I 
came home in the squadron with the prizes in 1811, 
and recollect to have heard Sir William Hoste, and 
the other officers engaged in that glorious conflict, 
speak in the highest terms of Pasqualigo's be- 
havior. There is the Abbate Morelli. "There is 
Alvise Querini, who, after a long and honorable 
diplomatic career, finds some consolation for the 
wrongs of his country, in the pursuits of literature 
with his nephew, Vittor Benzon, the son of the 
celebrated beauty, the heroine of " La Biondina in 
Gondolelta." There are the patrician poet Moro- 
sini, and the poet Lamberti, the author of the 
" Biondina," etc. and many other estimable produc- 
tions; and not least in an Englishman's estimation, 
Madame INIichelli, the translator of Shakspeare. 
There are the young Dandoio and the improvvisa- 
tore Carrer, and Giuseppe Albrizzi, the accom- 
lished son of an accomplished mother. There 
is Aglletti, and were there nothing else, there 
is the immortality of Canova, Cicognara, Mus- 
toxithi, Bucati, etc. etc. I do not reckon, be- 
ca ise the one is a Greek, and the others 
were born at least a hundred miles off, which, 
throughout Italy, constitutes, if not 2i foreigner ^ at 
least a stranger {/orestiere'). 

^[^^S.— , lazars \ 

" Beggars for nobles, \ lepers J for a people! "] 
( wretches ) 

3 The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to 
the Jews; who in the earlier times of the republic 
were only allowed to inhabit Mestri, and not to 
enter the city of Venice. The whole commerce is 
in the hands of the Jews and Greeks, and the Huns 
form the garrison. 



In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
Make their nobility a plea for pity! 
Then, when the few who still retam a wreck 
Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 
Round a barbarian VMce of Kings' V^ice-gerent, 
Even in tlie palace where they swayed as sov- 
ereigns, 
Even in the palace where they slew their sov- 
ereign, 
Proud of some name they have disgraced, or 

sprung 
From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 
With some large gondolier or foreign soldier. 
Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 
To the third spurious generation ; — when 
Thy sons are in the lowest scale of beipg. 
Slaves turned o'er to the vanquished by the 

victors. 
Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 
And scorned even by the vicious for such vices 
As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 
Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 
Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject king- 
dom. 
All thine inheritance shall be her shame 
Entailed on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 
A wider proverb for worse prostitutii)n ; — 
When all the ills of conquered states shall 

cling thee. 
Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
Even from the gloss of love to smoothe it o'er 
But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude, 
Prurient yet passionless, cold studied leu dness, 
Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 
When these and more are heavy on thee, when 
Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without 

pleasure. 
Youth without honor, age without respect, 
Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 
'Gainst which thouwilt not strive, and dar'st not 

murmur,4 
Have made thee last and worst of peopled 

deserts. 
Then, in the last gasp of thine agony. 
Amidst thy many murders, think of mine ! 



* If the Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look 
to the following, made by Alamanni two hundred 
and seventy years ago: — " There is one very sin- 
gular prophecy concerning Venice: 'If thou dost 
not change,' it says to that proud republic, ' thy 
liberty, which is already on the wing, will not 
reckon a century more than the thousandth year.' 
If we carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom to 
the establishment of the government imdcr which 
the republic flourished, we shall find that the date 
of the election of the first doge is 697; and if we 
add one century to a thousand, that is, eleven hun- 
dred years, we shall find the sense of the prediction 
to be literally this: ' Thy liberty will not last till 
1797.' Recollect that Venice ceased to be free in 
the year 1796, the fifth year of the French republic; 
and you will perceive, that there never was predic- 
tion more pointed, or more exactly followed by the 



574 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act v. 



Thou den of drunkards with the blood of 

princes ! i 
Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 2 
Tlius I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
Thee and thy serpent seed ! 3 

[//tvr the Doge turns and addresses the 

Executioner. 

Slave, do thine office! 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants 1 Strike deep as 

my curse ! 
Strike — and but once! 

[ ///^ Doge throws himself upon his knees, 

and as the Executioner raises his sword 

the scene closes. 



event. You will, therefore, note as very remark- 
able the three lines of Alamanni addressed to Venice; 
which, however, no one has pointed out: — 
' Se non cangi pensier, un secol solo 
Non contera sopra '1 millesiino anno 
Tua liberta, che-va fuggendo a volo.' 
Many prophecies have passed for such, and many 
men have been called prophets for much less." — 
Ginguene, Hist. Lit. de V Italie, t. ix. p. 144. 

' Of the first fifty Doges, yf^v^ abdicated — five 
were banished with their eyes put out — five were 
MASSACRED — and «/«^ deposed ; so that ninetee7i 
out of fifty lost the throne by violence, besides two 
who fell in battle: this occurred long previous to 
the reign of Marino Faliero. One of his more im- 
mediate predecessors, Andrea Dandolo, died of 
vexation. Marino Faliero himself perished as re- 
lated. Amongst his successors, Foscari, after 
seeing his son repeatedly tortured and banished, 
was deposed, and died of breaking a blood-vessel, 
on hearing the bell of Saint Mark's toll for the elec- 
tion of his successor. Morosini was impeached 
for the loss of Candia; but this was previous to his 
dukedom, during which he conquered the Morea, 
and was styled the Peloponnesian. Faliero might 
truly say, 
" Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! " 

2 [MS.- 
" Thou brothel of the waters! thou sea Sodom! "] 

^ [The sentence is pronounced, a brief hour is 
permitted for the last devotions, and then, — still 
robed in his ducal gown, and wearing the diadem, 

— preceded with all the pomp of his station, from 
which he is to be degraded in the moment only be- 
fore the blow be struck, — Marino Faliero is led sol- 
emnly to the Giants' Staircase, at the summit of 
which he had been crowned. On that spot he is to 
expiate his offence against the majesty of the Vene- 
tian state. His wife struggles to accompany him 
to the dreadful spot, but she faints, and he leaves 
her on the marble pavement, forbidding them to 
raise her, until all had been accomplished with 
himself. Lord Byron breaks out with all his power 
in the curse with which he makes this old man take 
leave of the scene of his triumphs and his sorrows. 
The present abject condition of her that " once did 
hold the gorgeous East in fee" — the barbarian 
sway under which she is bowed down to the dust 

— the profligacy of manners, which ought rather, 
perhaps, to have been represented as the cause than 
the consequence of the loss of Venetian liberty ; — 



SCENE IV.— The Piazza and Pidzz-tfa of Saint 
Mark's. — The People in crowds gathered 
round the grated gates of the Ducal Palace, 
which are shut. 

First Citizen. I have gained the gate, and 
can discern the Ten, 
Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round 
the Doge. 
Second Cit. I cannot reach thee with mine 
utmost effort. 
How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
Is thus prohibited unto the people, 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 
First Cit. One has aj^roached the Doge, 
and now they strip 
The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 
He raises his keen eyes to heaven ; I see 
Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush ! 

Hush ! — no, 
'Twas but a murmur — Curse upon the dis- 
tance ! 
His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
Swells up like muttered thunder; would wc 

could 
But gather a sole sentence ! 

Secotid Cit. Hush ! we perhaps may catch 

the sound. 
First Cit. 'Tis vain, 

I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave ! 
Now — now — he kneels — and now they form 

a circle 
Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 

The lifted sword in air Ah! hark! it 

falls ! [ The People nnirmur. 

Third Cit. Then they have murdered him 

who would have freed us. 
Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the com- 
mons ever. 
Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their 
portals barred. 
Would we had known the work they were 

preparing 
Ere we were summoned here — we would have 

brought 
Weapons, and forced them ! 

Sixth Cit. Are you sure he's dead ? 

First Cit. I saw the sword fall — Lo ! what 
have we here ? 

Enter on the Balcony of the Palace which fronts 
Saint Mark's Place' a CHIEF OF THE 'TEN,-* 
with a bloody sword. He waves it thrice be- 
fore the People and exclaims, 

" Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor!" 
[ The gates are opened; the populace rush in 



all these topics are handled — and handled as nc 
writer but Byron could have dared to handle them. 
— Lockhart.^ 

* " Un Capo de' Dieci " are the words of Sanu. 
to's Chronicle. 



APPENDIX.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



575 



towards the " Giants' Staircase," where the 

execution has taken place. The foreynost 

of thou exclaims to those behind. 

The gory headi rolls clown the Giants' Steps ! 

[ The curtain falls?- 

1 [MS.— 

J " The gory head is rolling down the steps ! ) 
\ " The head is rolling down the gory steps! " ) 
- [As a play, Marino Faliero is deficient in the 
attractive passions, in probability, and in depth and 
variety of interest; and revolts throughout, by the 
extravagant disproportion which ihe injury bears 
to the unmeasured resentment with which it is pur- 
sued. As a poem, though it occasionally displays 
great force and elevation, it obviously wants both 
grace and facility. The diction is often heavy and 
cumbrous, and the versification without sweetness 
or elasticity. It is generally very verbose, and 
sometimes exceedingly dull. Altogether, it gives 
us the impression of a thing worked out against the 
grain, and not poured forth from the fulness of the 
heart or the fancy; — the ambitious and elaborate 
work of a powerful mind engaged with an unsuit- 
able task — not the spontaneous effusion of an exu- 
berant imagination, sporting in the fulness of its 
strength. Every thing is heightened and enforced 
with visible eficjrt and design; and the noble author 
is often contented to be emphatic by dint of exag- 
geration, and eloquent by the common topics of 
declamation. Lord Byron is, undoubtedly, a poet 
of the very first order, and has talents to reach the 
very highest honors of the drama. But he must 
not again disdain love, and ambition, and jealousy : 



he must not substitute what is merely bizarre and 
extraordinary, for what is naturally and universally 
interesting, nor expect, by any exaggerations, so to 
rouse and rule our sympathies by the sen.seless 
anger of an old man, and the prudish proprieties 
of an untempted woman, as by the agency of the 
great and simple passions with which, in some of 
their degrees, all men are familiar, and by which 
alone the Dramatic Muse has hitherto wrought her 
miracles. — Jeffrey. 

On the whole, the Doge of Venice is the effect 
of a powerful and cultivated mind. It has all the 
requisites of tragedy, sublimity, terror, and pathos 
— all but that without which the rest are unavail- 
ing, Interest! With many detached passages which 
neither derogate from Lord Byron's former fame, 
nor would have derogated from the reputation of 
our best ancient tragedians, it is, as a whole, nei- 
ther sustained nor impressive. The poet, except in 
the soliloquy of Lioni, scarcely ever seems to have 
written with his own thorough good liking. He 
may be suspected throughout to have had in his 
eye some other model than nature; and we rise 
from his work with the same feeling as if we had 
been reading a translation. For this want of inter- 
est the subject itself is, doubtless, in some measure 
to blame; though, if the same subject had been 
differently treated, we are inclined to believe a very 
different effect would have been produced. But for 
the constraint and stiffness of the poetry, we have 
nothing to blame but the apparent resolution of its 
author to set (at whatever risk) an example of 
classical correctness to his uncivilized countrymen, 
and rather to forego success than to succeed after 
the manner of Shakspeare. — Heber,\ 



APPENDIX 



Note A. 

I AM obliged for the following excellent transla- 
tion of the old Chror.-icle to Mr. F. Cohen,' to 
whom the reader will find himself indebted for a 
version that I could not myself — though after 
many years' intercourse with Italian — have given 
by any means so purely and so faithfuUy.- 



1 [Mr. Francis Cohen, now Sir Francis Palgrave, 
K. H., the learned author of the " Rise and Prog- 
ress of the English Constitution," " History of the 
Anglo-Saxons," etc. etc.] 

- [In a letter to Mr. Murray, dated Ravenna, 
July 30, 1821, Byron says: — "Enclosed is the 
best account of the Doge Faliero, which was only 
sent to me, from an old MS., the other day. Get it 
translated, and append it as a note to the next 
edition. You will, perhaps, be pleased to see, that 
my conceptions of his character were correct, though 
I regret not having met with the extract before. 
You will perceive that he himself said exactly what 
he is made to say about the l^iishop of Treviso. 
You will see also that he spoke little, and those 
only words of rage and disdain after his arrest; 
which is the case in the play, except when he 



STORY OF IWARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. IWCCCLIV. 
On the eleventh day of September, in the year 
of our Lord 1354, Marino Faliero was elected and 
chosen to be the Duke of the Commonwealth of 
Venice. He was Count of Valdemarino, in the 
Marches of Treviso, and a Knight, and a wealthy 
man to boot. As soon as the election was com- 
pleted, it was resolved in the Great Council, that a 
deputation of twelve should be despatched to Ma- 
rino Faliero the Duke, who was then on his way 
from Rome; for when he was chosen, he was em- 
bassador at the court of the Holy Father, at Rome, 
— the Holy Father himself held his court at Avig- 
non. When Messer Marino Faliero the Duke was 
about to land in this city, on the 5ih day of October, 
1354, a thick haze came on, and darkened the air; 
and he was enforced to land on the place of Saint 
Mark, between the two columns, on the spot where 
evil doers are put to death; and all thought that 
this was the worst of tokens. — Nor must I forget 
to write that which I have read in a chronicle. 
When Messer Marino Faliero was Podesta and 

breaks out at the close of Act fifth. But his speech 
to the conspirators is better in the MS. than m the 
play. I wish I had met with it in time."] 



576 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[appendix. 



Captain of Treviso, the Bishop delayed coming in 
with the holy sacrament, on a day when a proces- 
sion was to take place. Now, the said Marino 
Faliero was so very proud and wrathful, that he 
buffeted the Bishop, and almost struck him to the 
ground: and, therefore. Heaven allowed Marino 
Faliero to go out of his right senses, in order that 
he might bring himself to an evil death. 

When this Duke had held the dukedom during 
nine months and six days, he, being wicked and 
ambitious, sought to make himself Lord of Venice, 
in the manner which I have read in an ancient 
chronicle. When the Thursday arrived upon which 
they were wont to hunt the bull, the bull hunt took 
place as usual ; and, according to the usage of those 
times, after the bull hunt had ended, they all pro- 
ceeded unto the palace of the Duke, and assembled 
together in one of his halls; and they disported 
themselves with the women. And. until the first 
bell tolled they danced, and then a banquet was 
served up. My Lord the Duke paid the expenses 
thereof, provided he had a Duchess, and after the 
banquet they all returned to their homes. 

Now to this feast there came a certain Ser 
Michele Steno, a gentleman of poor estate and very 
young, but crafty and daring, and who loved one 
of the damsels of the Duchess. Ser Michele stood 
amongst the women upon the solajo; and he be- 
haved indiscreetly, so that my Lord the Duke 
ordered that he should be kicked off the solajo; 
and the esquires of the Duke flung him down from 
the solajo accordingly. Ser Michele thought that 
such an affront was beyond all bearing ; and when 
the feast was over, and all other persons had left 
the palace, he, continuing heated with anger, went 
to the hall of audience, and wrote certain unseemly 
words relating to the Duke and the Duchess upon 
the chair in which the Duke was used to sit; for in 
those days the Duke did not cover his chair with 
cloth of sendal but he sat in a chair of wood. Ser 
Michele wrote thereon — '''Marin Falier, the 
httsband of the fair ivife; others kiss her, but 
he keeps her.'" In the morning the words were 
seen, and the matter was considered to be very 
scandalous; and the Senate commanded the Avoga- 
dori of the Commonwealth to proceed therein with 
the greatest diligence. A largess of great amount 
was immediately proffered by the Avogadori, in 
order to discover who had written these words. 
And at length it was known that Michele Steno 
had written them. It was resolved iji the Coimcil 
of Forty that he should be arrested; and he then 
confessed that in the fit of vexation and spite, 
occasioned by his being thrust off the solajo in the 
presence of his mistress, he had written the words. 
Therefore the Council debated thereon. And the 
Council took his youth into consideration, and that 
he was a lover; and therefore they adjudged that 
he should be kept in close confinement during two 
months, and that afterwards he should be banished 
from Venice and the state during one year. In 
consequence of this merciful sentence the Duke 
became exceedingly wroth, it appearing to him, 
that the Council had not acted in such a manner as 
was required by the respect due to his ducal dig- 
nity; and he said they ought to have condemned 
Ser Michele to be hanged by the neck, or at least 
to be banished for life. 

Now it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was 
to have his head cut off. And as it is necessary when 
any effect is to be brought about, that the cause of 



such effect must happen, it therefore came to pass, 
that on the very day after sentence had been pro- 
nounced on Ser Michele Steno, being the first day 
of Lent, a gentleman of the house of Barbaro, a 
choleric gentleman, went to the arsenal, and re- 
quired certain things of the masters of the galleys. 
This he did in the presence of the Admiral of the 
arsenal, and he, hearing the request, answered, — 
No, it cannot be done. High words arose between 
the gentleman and the Admiral, and the gentleman 
struck him with his fist just above the eye; and as 
he happened to have a ring on his finger, the ring 
cut the Admiral and drew blood. The Admiral, all 
bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to 
complain, and with the intent of praying him to 
inflict some heavy punishment upon the gentleman 
of Ca Barbaro. — " What wouldst thou have me do 
for thee?" answered the Duke: "think upon the 
shameful gibe which hath been written concerning 
me; and think on the manner in which they have 
punished that ribald Michele Steno, who wrote it; 
and see how the Council of Forty respect our 
person." — Upon this the Admiral answered, — 
" My Lord Duke, if you would wish to make your- 
self a prince, and to cut all those cuckoldy gentle- 
men to pieces, I have the heart, if you do but help 
me, to make you prince of all this state; and then 
you may punish them all." — Hearing this, the 
Duke said, — " How can such a matter be brought 
about.'' " — and so they discoursed thereon. 

The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertuccio 
Faliero, who lived with him in the palace, and they 
communed about this plot. And without leaving 
the place, they sent for Philip Calendaro, a seaman 
of great repute, and for Bertuccio Israello, who was 
exceedingly wily and cunning. Then taking coun- 
sel amongst themselves, they agreed to call in some 
others; and so, for several niglits successively, they 
met with the Duke at home in his palace. And the 
following meir were called in singly; to wit; — 
Niccolo Fagiuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano 
Fagiono, Niccolo dalle Bende, Niccolo Biondo, and 
Stefano Trivisano. — It was concerted that sixteen 
or seventeen leaders should be stationed in various 
parts of the city, each being at the head of forty 
men, armed and prepared; but the followers were 
not to know their destination. On the appointed 
day they were to make affrays amongst themselves 
here and there, in order that the Duke might have 
a pretence for tolling the bells of San Marco; these 
bells are never rimg but by the order of the Duke. 
And at the sound of the bells, these sixteen or 
seventeen, with their followers, were to come to San 
Marco, through the streets which open upon the 
Piazza. And when the noble and leading citizens 
should come into the Piazza, to know the cause of 
the riot, then the conspirators were to cut them in 
pieces, and this work being finished, my Lord Ma- 
rino Faliero the Duke was to be proclaimed the 
Lord of Venice. Things having been thus settled, 
they agreed to fulfil their intent on Wednesday, the 
15th day of April, in the year 1355. So covertly 
did they plot, that no one ever dreamt of their 
hrachinations. 

But the Lord, who hath always helped this most 
glorious city, and who, loving its righteousness and 
holiness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Bel- 
tramo Bergamasco to be the cause of bringing the 
plot to light, in the following manner. This Bel- 
tramo, who belonged to Ser Niccolo Liono of Santo 
Stefano, had heard a word or two of what was to 



APPENDIX.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



S11 



take place ; and so, in the before-mentioned month 
of April, he went to the house of the afoies'aid Ser 
Niccolo Liono, and told him all the particulars of 
the plot. Ser Niccolo, when he heard all these 
things, was struck dead, as it were, with aflright. 
He heard all the particulars; and Beitramo prayed 
him to keep it all secret; and if he told Ser Niccolo, 
it was in order that Ser Niccolo might stop at home 
on the 15th of April, and thus save his life. Bei- 
tramo was going, but Ser "Niccolo ordered his ser- 
vants to lay hands upon him, and lock him up. 
Ser Niccolo then went to the house of Messer 
Giovanni Gradenigo Nasoni, who afterwards be- 
came Duke, and who also lived at Santo Stefano, 
and told him all. The matter seemed to him to be 
of the very greatest importance, as indeed it was; 
and they two went to the house of Ser Marco Cor- 
naro, who lived at San Felice; and, having spoken 
with him, they all three then determined to go back 
to the house of Ser Niccolo Lioni, to examine the 
said Beitramo; and having questioned him, and 
heard all that he had to say, they left him in con- 
finement. And then they all three went into the 
sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent their men to 
summon the Councillors, the Avogadori, the Capi 
de' Dieci, and those of the Great Council. 

When all were assembled, the whole story was 
told to them. They were struck dead, as it were, 
with affright. They determined to send for Bei- 
tramo. He was brought in before them. They 
examined him, and ascertained that the matter was 
true ; and, although they were exceedingly troubled, 
yet they determined upon their measures. And 
they sent for the Capi de' Quarante, the Signori di 
Notte, the Capi de' Sestieri, and the Cinque della 
Pace; and they were ordered to associate to their 
men other good men and true, who were to proceed 
to the houses of the ringleaders of the conspiracy, 
and secure them. And they secured the foreman 
of the arsenal, in order that the conspirators might 
not do mischief. Towards nightfall they assembled 
in the palace. When they were assembled in the 
palace, they caused the gates of the quadrangle of 
the palace to be shut. And they sent to the keeper 
of the Bell-tower, and forbade the tolling of the 
bells. All this was carried into effect. The before- 
mentioned conspirators were secured, and they were 
brought to the palace; and, as the Council of Ten 
saw that the Duke was in the plot, they resolved 
that twenty of the leading men of the state should 
be associated to them for the purpose of consulta- 
tion and deliberation, but that they should not be 
allowed to ballot. 

The counsellors were the following: — Ser Giov- 
anni Mocenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco; Ser 
Almoro Veniero da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of 
Castello; Ser Tomaso Viadro, of the Sestiero of 
Canaregio; Ser Giovanni Sanudo, of the Sestiero of 
Santa Croce; Ser Pietro Trivisano, of the Sestiero 
of San Paolo; Ser Pantalione Barbo il Grando, of 
the Sestiero of Ossoduro. The Avogadori of the 
Commonwealth were Zufredo Morosini, and Ser 
Orio Pasqualigo; and these did not ballot. Those 
of the Council of Ten were Ser Giovanni Marcello, 
Ser Tommaso Sanudo, and Ser Micheletto Dolfino, 
the heads of the aforesaid Council of Ten. Ser 
Luca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, inquisi- 
tors of the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco 
Polani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, 
and Ser Nicoletto Trivisano, of Sant' Angelo. 

Late in the night, just before the dawning, they I 



chose a junta of twenty noblemen of Venice from 

amongst the wisest, and the worthiest, and the 
oldest. Tliey were to give counsel, but not to 
ballot. And they wotdd not admit any one of Ca 
Faliero. And Niccolo Faliero, and another Niccolo 
Faliero, of San Tomaso, were expelled from the 
Council, because they belonged to the family of 
the Doge. And this resolution of creating the 
junta of twenty was much praised throughout the 
state. The following were the members of the 
junta of twenty: — Ser Marco Giustiniani, Procura- 
tore, Ser Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser Lionardo 
Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser Andrea Contarini, Ser 
Simone Dandolo, Ser Nicolo Volpe, Str Giovanni 
Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Gradeni- 
go, Ser Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco So- 
ranzo, Ser Rinieri du Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, 
Ser Marino Morosini, Ser Stefano Belegno, Ser 
Nicolo Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivi- 
sano, Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Fosca- 
rini. 

These twenty were accordingly called in to the 
Council of Ten; and they sent for My Lord Marino 
Faliero the Duke: and My Lord Marino was then 
consorting in the palace with people of great estate, 
gentlemen, and other good men, none of whom 
knew yet how the fact stood. 

At the same time Bertucci Israello, who, as one 
of the ring-leaders, was to head the conspirators in 
Santa Croce, was arrested and bound, and brought 
before the Council. Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto 
di Rosa, Nicoletto Alberto, and the Guardiaga, 
were also taken, together with several seamen, and 
people of various ranks. These were examined, 
and the truth of the plot was ascertained. 

On the i6th of April judgment was given in the 
Council of Ten, that Filippo Calendaro and Bertuc- 
cio Israello should be hanged upon the red pillars 
of the balcony of the palace, from which the Duke 
is wont to look at the bull hunt : and they were 
hanged with gags in their mouths. 

The next day the following were condemned: — 
Niccolo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto 
Doro, Marco Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nico- 
letto Fidele, the son of Filippo Calendaro, Marco 
Torello, called Israello, Stefano Trivisano, the 
money changer of Santa Margherita, and Antonio 
dalle Bende. These were all taken at Chiozza, for 
they were endeavoring to escape. Afterwards, by 
virtue of the sentence which was passed upon them 
in the Council of Ten, they were hanged on suc- 
cessive days; some singly and some in couples, 
upon the columns of the palace, beginning from 
the red columns, and so going onwards towards the 
canal. And other prisoners were discharged, be- 
cause, although they had been involved in the 
conspiracy, yet they had not as listed in it : for they 
were given to understand by s.)me of the heads of 
the plot, that they were to come armed and pre- 
pared for the service of the state, and in order to 
secure certain criminals; and they knew nothing 
else. Nicoletto Alberto, the Guardiaga, and Bar- 
tolommeo Ciricolo and his son, and several others, 
who were not guilt}'^, were discharged. 

On Friday, the i6th day of April, judgment was 
also given, in the aforesaid Council of Ten, that 
my Lord Marino Faliero, the Duke, should have 
his head.cut off ; and that the execution should be 
done on the landing-place of the stone staircase, 
where the Dukes take their oath when they first 
enter the palace. O.i the f.-ilowing day, the 17th 



578 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[appendix. 



of April, the doors of the palace being shut, the 
Duke had his head cut off, about the hour of noon. 
And the cap of estate was taken from the Duke's 
head before he came down stairs. When the exe- 
cution was over, it is said that one of the Council 
of Ten went to the cokunns of the palace over 
against the place of St. Mark, and that he showed 
the bloody sword unto the people, crying out with 
a loud voice — "The terrible doom hath fallen 
upon the traitor!" — and the doors were opened, 
and the people all rushed in, to see the corpse of 
tlie Dlil-;e, whq had been beheaded. 

It must be known that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the 
councillor, was not present when the aforesaid 
sentence was pronounced; because he was unwell 
and remained at home. So that only fourteen 
balloted; that is to say, five councillors, and nine 
of the Council of Ten. And it was adjudged, that 
all the lands and chattels of the Duke, as well as of 
the other traitors, should be forfeited to the state. 
And as a grace to the Duke, it was resolved in the 
Council of Ten, that he should be allowed to dis- 
pose of two thousand ducats out of his own prop- 
erty. And it was resolved, that all the councillors 
and all the Avogadori of the Commonwealth, those 
of the Council of Ten, and the members of the 

Snta, who had assisted in passing sentence on the 
uke and the other traitors, should have the privi- 
lege of carrying arms both by day and by night in 
Venice, and from Grado to Cavazere. And they 
were also to be allowed two footmen carrying arms, 
the aforesaid footmen living and boarding with 
them in their own houses. And he who did not 
keep two footmen might transfer the privilege to 
his sons or his brothers; but only to two. Permis- 
sion of carrying arms was also granted to the four 
Notaries of the Chancery, that is to say, of the 
Supreme Court, who took the depositions; and 
they were, Amedio, Nicoletto di Torino, Steffa- 
nello, and Pietro de Compostelli, the secretaries of 
the Signori di Notte. 

After the traitors had been hanged, and the 
Duke had had his head cut off, the state remained 
in great tranquillity and peace. And, as I have 
read in a Chronicle, the corpse of the Duke was 
removed in a barge, with eight torches, to his tomb 
in the church of San Giovanni e Paolo, where it 
was buried. The tomb is now in that aisle in the 
middle of the little church of Santa Maria della 
Pace, which was built by Bishop Gabriel of Ber- 
gamo. It is a coffin of stone, with these words en- 
graven thereon: — " Heic jacet Do minus Mari- 
nus Faletro Dux.'" — And they did not paint his 
portrait in the hall of the Great Coiuicil: — but in 
the place where it ought to have been, you see 
these words: — '■'Hie est locics Marini Faletro, 
decapitati pro crimifizdjisy — And it is thought 
that his house was granted to the church of Sant' 
Apostolo ; it was that great one near the bridge. 
Yet this could not be the case, or else the family 
bought it back from the church; for it still belongs 
to Ca Faliero. I must not refrain from noting, that 
some wished to write the following words in the 
place where his portrait ought to have been, as 
aforesaid: — " Marhius Faletro Dux, teineritas 
me cepit. Poenas Int, decapitatus pro crimitii- 
bus.^'' — Others, also, indited a couplet, worthy of 
being inscribed upon his tomb. , 

" Dux Venetum jacet heic , patriatn qui prodere 

tentnits, 
Sctptra ^ dec us, ceiisum Perdidit, atque caput." 



Note B. 

PETRARCH ON THE CONSPIRACY OF MARINO 
FALIERO.^ 

" Al giovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succedette 
un vecchio, il quale tardi si pose al timone della 
repubblica, ma sempre prima di quel che facea d' 
uopo a lui, ed alia patria : egli e Marino Faliero, 
personaggio a me noto* per antica dimestichezza. 
Falsa era 1' opinione intorno a lui, giacche egli si 
mostrd fornito piu di corraggio, che di senno. 
Non pago della prima dignita, entrb con sinistro 
piede nel pubblico Palazzo: imperciocche questo 
Doge dei Veneti, magistrato sacro in tutti i secoli, 
che dagli antichi fu sempre venerato qual nume in 
quella citta, 1' altr' jeri fu decollato nel vestibolo 
deir istesso Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal principio 
le cause di un tale evvento, se cosi vario ed ambi- 
guo non ne fosse il grido. Nessuno pero lo scusa, 
tutti affermano, che egli abbia voluto cangiar 
qualche cosa nell' ordine della repubblica a lui 
tramandato dai maggiori. Chfe desiderava egli di 
piu? lo son d' avviso, che egli abbia ottenuto cib 
che non si concedette a nessun altro : mentre 
adempiva gli ufficj di legato presso il Pontefice, e 
sulle rive del Rodano trattava la pace, che io 
prima di lui aveva indarno tentato di conchiudere, 
gli fu conferito 1' onore del Ducato, che ne chiedcva, 
ne s' aspettava. Tornato in patria, pens5 a quelle 
cui nessuno non pose mente giammai, e soffri 
quello che a niuno accadde mai di soffrire: giac- 
che in quel luogo celeberrimo, e chiarissimo, e bel- 
lissimo infra tutti quelli che io vidi, ove i suoi 
antenati avevano ricevuti grandissimi onori in 
mezzo alle pompe trionfali, ivi egli fu trascinato in 
modo servile, e spogliato delle insegne ducali, per- 
dette la testa, e macchib col proprio sangue le 
soglie del tempio, 1' atrio del Palazzo, e le scale 
marmoree rendute spesse volte illustri, o dalle 
solenni festivita, o dalle ostili spoglie. Ho notato 
il luogo, ora noto il tempo: e 1' anno del Natale di 
Cristo 1355, fu il giorno 18 d' Aprile. Si alto e il 
grido sparso, che se'alcuno esaminera la disciplina, 
e le costumanze di quella citta, e quanto muta- 
mento di cose venga minacciato dalla morte di un 
sol uomo (quantunque molti altri, come narrano, 
essendo complici, o subirono 1' istesso supplicio, o lo 
aspettano) si accorgera, che nulla di piu grande 
avvenne ai nostri tempi nella Italia. Tu forse qui 
attendi il mio giudizio: assolvo il popolo, se cre- 
dere alia fama, benche abbia potuto e castigare piu 
mitemente, e con maggior dolcezza vendicare il suo 
dolore: ma non cosi facilmente si modera un' ira 
giusta insieme e grande, in un numeroso popolo 
principalmente, nel quale il precipitoso ed instabile 
volgo aguzza gli stimoli dell' irracondia con 
rapidi e sconsigliati clamori. Compatisco, e nell' 
istesso tempo mi adiro con quell' infelice uomo, 
il quale adorno di un' insolito onore, non so 
che cosa si volesse negli estremi anni della sua 
vita: la calamita di lui diviene sempre piu 
grave, perche dalla sentenza contradi esso pro- 
mulgata aperira, che egli fii non solo misero, 
ma insano, e demente, c che con vane arti si 



1 [" Had a copy taken of an extract from Pe- 
trarch's Letters, with reference to the conspiracy of 
the Doge Marino Faliero, containing the poet's 
opinion of the matter." — Byron's Diary, February 
II, 1821.] 



APPENDIX.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



579 



usurp5 per tanti anni una falsa farna di sapienza. 
Ammonisco i Dogi, i quali gli succederano, che 
questo e un' esempio posto inanzi ai loro occhj, 
quale specchio, nel quale veggano d' essere non 
Signori, ma Duel, anzi nemmeno Duci, ma onorati 
servi della Repubblica. Tu sta saiio; e giacch^ 
fluttuano le pubbliche cose, sforsiamosi digovernar 
modestissimamente i privati nostri affari." — Le- 
VATi, I'iaggi di Petrarca, vol. iv. p. 323. 

The above Italian translation from the Latin 
epistles of Petrarch proves — 

istly, That Marino Faliero was a personal friend 
of Petrarch's; " antica dimestichezza," old inti- 
macy, is the phrase of the poet. 

2dly, That Petrarch thought that he had more 
courage than conduct, " piu di corraggio che di 
senno." 

3dly, That there was some jealousy on the part 
of Petrarch; for he says that Marino Faliero was 
treating of the peace which he himself had " vainly 
attempted to conclude." 

4thly. That the honor of the Dukedom was con- 
ferred upon him, which he neither sought nor ex- 
pected, " che ne chiedeva ne aspettava," and which 
had never been granted to any other in like circum- 
stances, " ci6 che non si concedette a nessun altro," 
a proof of the high esteem in which he must have 
been held. 

5thly, That he had a reputation for wtsdom, 
only forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, " si 
usurpb per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza." 
— " He had usurped for so many years a false fame 
of wisdom," rather a difficult task, I should think. 
People are generally found out before eighty years 
of age, at least in a republic. 

From these and the other historical notes which 
I have collected, it may be inferred, that Marino 
Faliero possessed many of the qualities, but not the 
success of a hero; and that his passions were too 
violent. The paltry and ignorant account of Dr. 
Moore falls to the ground. Petrarch says, " that 
there had been no greater event in his times " {our 
times literally), " nostri tempi," in Italy. He also 
differs from the historian in saying that Faliero was 
"on the banks of the Rhone," instead of at Rome, 
when elected; the other accounts say, that the dep- 
utation of the Venetian senate met him at Ravenna. 
How this may have been, it is not for me to decide, 
and is of no great importance. Had the man suc- 
ceeded, he would have changed the face of Venice, 
and perhaps of Italy. As it is, what are they both.-* 



Note C. 

VENETIAN SOCIETY AND MANNERS. 

" Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
Even from the gloss of love to smoothe it o'er; 
But, in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude," etc. 
— {See p. 173.) 

" To these attacks so frequently pointed by the 
government against the clergy, — to the continual 
struggles between the different constituted bodies, 
— lo these enterprises carried on by the mass of the 
nobles against the depositaries of power, — to all 
those projects of innovation, which always ended 
by a stroke of state policy; we must add a c.Tuse 
not le=s fitted to spread contempt for ancient doc- 
trines; this was the excess 0/ corruption. 



" That freedom of manners, which had been long 
boasted of as the principal charm of Venetian soci- 
ety, had degenerated into scandalous licentiousness : 
the tie of marriage was less sacred in that Catholic 
country, than among those nations where the laws 
and religion admit of its being dissolved. Because 
they could not break the contract, they feigned that 
it had not existed; and the ground of nullity, im- 
modestly alleged by the married pair, was admitted 
with equal facility by priests and nragistrates, alike 
corrupt. These divorces, veiled under another 
name, became so frequent, that the most important 
act of civil society was discovered to be amenable 
to a tribunal of exceptions; and to restrain the open 
scandal of such proceedings became the office of 
the police. In 1782, the Council of Ten decreed, 
that every woman who should sue for a dissolution 
of her marriage should be compelled to await the 
decision of the judges in some convent, to be 
named by the court.* Soon afterwards the same 
council summoned all causes of that nature before 
itself.- This infringement on ecclesiastical juris- 
diction having occasioned some remonstrance from 
Rome, the council retained only the right of reject- 
ing the petition of the married persons, and con- 
sented to refer such causes to the holy office as it 
should not previously have rejected.^ 

" There was a moment in which, doubtless, the 
destruction of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, 
the domestic discord occasioned by these abuses, 
determined the government to depart from its es- 
tablished maxims concerning the freedom of man- 
ners allowed the subject. All the courtesans were 
banished from Venice; but their absence was not 
enough to reclaim and bring back good morals to a 
whole people brought up in the most scandalous 
licentiousness. Depravity reached tlie very bosoms 
of private families, and even into the cloister; and 
they foimd themselves obliged to recall, and even 
to indemnify* women who sometimes gained pos- 
session of important secrets, and who might be 
usefully employed in the ruin of men whose for- 
tunes might have rendered them dangerous. Since 
that time licentiousness has gone on increasing; 
and we have seen mothers, not only selling the 
intiocence of their daughters, but selling it by a 
contract, authenticated by the signature of a pub- 
lic officer, and the performance of which was se- 
cured by the protection of the laws.^ 

" The parlors of the convents of noble ladies, 
and the houses of the courtesans, though the police 
carefully kept up a number of spies about them, 
were the only assemblies for society in Venice; and 
in these two places, so different from each other, 
there was equal freedom. Music, collations, gal- 
lantry, were not more forbidden in the parlors than 
at the casinos. There were a number of casinos 
for the purpose of public assemblies, where gaming 
was the principal pursuit of the company. It was 



1 Correspondence of M. Schlick, French charge 
d'affaires. Despatch of 24th August, 1782. 

2 Ibid. Despatch, 31st August. 

3 Ibid. Despatch of 3d September, 1785. 

•* The decree for their recall designates them as 
7wstre betiemerite meretrici : a fund and some 
houses, called Case ra7npa7te , were assigned to 
them ; hence the opprobrious appellation of Caratn- 
pane 

^ Mnyer, Description of Venice, vol. ii., and M. 
Archenholz, Picture of Italy, vol. i. ch. 2. 



580 



SARDANAPAL US. 



a strange sight to see persons of either sex masked, 
or grave in their magisterial robes, round a table, 
invoking chance, and giving way at one instant to 
the agonies of despair, at the next to the illusions 
of hope, and that without uttering a single word. 

"The rich had private casinos, but they lived 
incogfiito in them; and the wives whom they 



abandoned found compensation in the liberty they 
enjoyed. The corruption of morals had deprived 
them of their empire. We have just reviewed 
the wliole history of Venice, and we have not once 
seen them exercise the slightest influence." — 
Daru : Hist, de la Repiib. de Venise, vol. v. 
P- 95- 



SARDANAPALUS:^ A TRAGEDY. 



TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 

A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE OF A 

LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, 

WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY, 

AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 

THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION 

WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM IS ENTITLED 

SARDANAPALUS.2 



' [Sardanapalus is, beyond all doubt, a work of great beauty and power; and though the heroine 
has many traits in common with the Medoras and Gulnares of Lord Byron's undramatic poetry, the 
hero must be allowed to be a new character in his hands. He has, indeed, the scorn of war, and 
glory, and priestcraft, and regular morality, which distinguishes the rest of his lordship's favorites; 
but he has no misanthropy, and very little pride — and may be regarded, on the whole, as one of the 
most truly good-humored, amiable, and respectable voluptuaries to whom we have ever been presented. 
In this conception of his character, the author has very wisely followed nature and fancy rather than 
history. His Sardanapalus is not an effeminate, worn-out debauchee, with shattered nerves and ex- 
hausted senses, the slave of indolence and vicious habits; but a sanguine votary of pleasure, a 
princely epicure, indulging, revelling in boundless luxury while he can, but with a soul so inured to 
voluptuousness, so saturated with delights, that pain and danger, when they come uncalled for, 
give him neither concern nor dread; and he goes forth from the banquet to the battle, as to a dance 
or measure, attired by the Graces, and with youth, joy, and love for his guides. He dallies with 
Bellona as bridegroom — for his sport and pastime; and the spear or fan, the shield or shining mirror, 
become his hands equally well. He enjoys life, in short, and triumphs in death; and whether in pros- 
perous or adverse circumstances, his soul smiles out superior to evil. — Jeffrey. 

The Sardanapalus of Lord Byron is pretty nearly such a person as the Sardanapalus of history may 
be supposed to have been. Young, thoughdess, spoiled by flattery and unbounded self-indulgence, 
but with a temper naturally amiable, and abilities of a superior order, he affects to undervalue the 
sanguinary renown of his ancestors as an excuse for inattention to the most necessary duties of his 
rank; and flatters himself, while he is indulging his own sloth, that he is making his people happy. 
Yet, even in his fondness for pleasure, there lurks a love of contradiction. Of the whole picture, sel- 
fishness is the prevailing feature — selfishness admirably drawn indeed; apologized for by every 
palliating circumstance of education and habit, and clothed in the brightest colors of which it is 
susceptible from youth, talents, and placability. But it is selfishness still; and we should have been 
tempted to quarrel with the art which made vice and frivolity thus amiable, if Lord Byron had not 
at the same time pointed out with much skill the bitterness and weariness of spirit which inevitably 
wait on such a character; and if he had not given a fine contrast to the picture in the accompanying 
portraits of Salemenes and of Myrrha. — Bishop Heher.'\ 

^ ['' Well knowing myself and my labors, in my old age, I could not but reflect with gratitude and dif- 
fidence on the expressions contained in this dedication, nor interpret them but as the generous tribute of 
a superior genius, no less original in the choice than inexhaustible in the materials of his subjects." — 
Goethe.^ 



SARDANAPALUS. 581 



INTRODUCTION. 

On the original MS. Byron wrote: — "Mem. Ravenna, May 27, 1821. — I began this drama on the 
13th of January, 1821 ; and continued the two first acts very slowly, and by intervals. The three last 
acts were writtien since the 13th of May, 1821 (this present month) ; that is to say, in a fortnight." The 
following are extracts from Byron's diary and letters: — 

" January 13, 1821. Sketched the outline and Dram. Pers. of an intended tragedy of Sardanapalus, 
which I have for some time meditated. Took the names from Diodorus Siculus, (I know the history of 
Sardanapalus, and have known it since I was twelve years old,) and read over a passage in the ninth 
volume of Mitford's Greece, where he rather vindicates the memory of this last of the Assyrians. Carried 
Teresa the Italian translation of Grillparzer's Sappho. She quarrelled with me, because I said that love 
was not the loftiest theme for a tragedy; and, having the advantage of her native language, and natural 
female eloquence, she overcame my fewer arguments. I believe she was right. I must put more love 
into ' Sardanapalus ' than I intended." 

" May 25. I have completed four acts. I have made Sardanapalus brave, (though voluptuous, as 
historj-^ represents him,) and also as amiable as my poor powers could render him. I have strictly pre- 
served all the unities hitherto, and mean to continue them in the fifth, if possible; but not for the stage." 

" May 30. By this post I send you the tragedy. You will remark that the unities are all strictly pre- 
served. The scene passes in the same hall always: the time,.a summer's night, about nine hours or less; 
though it begins before sunset, and ends after sunrise. It is not for the stage, any more than the other 
was intended for it; and I shall take better care this time that they don't get hold on't." 

"July 14. I trust that ' Sardanapalus' will not be mistaken for a political play; which was so far 
from my intention, that I thought of nothing but Asiatic history. My object has been to dramatize, like 
the Greeks (a tnodest phrase), striking passages of history and mythology. You will find all this veiy 
?<;/like Shakspeare; and so much the better in one sense, for I look upon him to be the worst of models, 
though the most extraordinary of writers. It has been my object to be as simple and severe as Alfieri, 
and I have broken down the poetry as nearly as I could to common language. The hardship is that, in 
these times, one can neither speak of kings nor queens without suspicion of politics or personalities. I 
intended neither. 

" July 22. Print away, and publish. I think they must own that I have more styles than one. "■ Sar- 
danapalus' is, however, almost a comic character; but, for that. matter, so is Richard the Third. Mind 
the unities, which are my great object of research. I am glad Giflbrd likes it: as for the million, you 
see I have carefully consulted any thing but the taste of the day for extravagant ' coups de theatre.' " 

Sardanapalus was published in December, 1821, and was received with very great approbation. 

The following is an extract from The Life of Dr. Parr: — " In the course of the evening the Doctor 
cried out — ' Have 3'ou read Sardanapalus?' — 'Yes, Sir.'—* Right; and you couldn't sleep a wink after 
it?' — ' No.' — ' Right, right — now don't say a word more about it to-night.' — The memory of that fine 
poem seemed to act like a spell of horrible fascination upon him." 



DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 



MEN. 
Sardanapalus, King of Nineveh and As- 
syria, etc. 
A RBACES, the Mede who aspii-ed to the Throne. 
BeleSES, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
SaLEMENES, the King's Brother-in-law. 
Altada, an Assyriafi Officer of the Palace. 
Pania. Zames. Sfero, Balea. 



WOMEN. 



ZaRINA, the Queen. 

Myrrha, an Ionian female Slave, and the 
Favorite of SARDANAPALUS. 

lVo?nen composing the Harem of SARDA- 
NAPALUS, Guards, Attendants^ Chaldean 
Priests, Medes, etc. etc. 



Scene — a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh, 



.'582 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act 1. 



Scene I. 



ACfY I. 

A Hall in the Palace. 



Salemencs {solus). He hath wronged his 
queen, but still he is lier lord; 
He hath wronged my sister, still he is my 

brother ; 
He hath wronged his people, still he is their 

sovereign, 
And I must be his friend as well as subject : 
He must not perish thus. I will not see 
The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd's talc ; 
He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
There is a careless courage which corruption 
Has not all quenched, and latent energies, 
Repressed by circumstance, but not de- 
stroyed — 
Steeped, but not drowned, in deep voluptu- 
ousness. 
If born a peasant, he had been a man 
To have reached an empire : to an empire 

born. 
He will bequeathe none ; nothing but a name. 
Which his sons will not prize in heritage : — 
Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
His sloth and sliame, by only being that 
Which he should be, as easily as the thing 
He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
To sway his nations than consume his life ? 
To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul,i 
And saps his goodly strength, in toils which 

yield not 

Health like the chase, nor glory like the war — 

He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

\Sound of soft 7iiusic heard fro'ui witk'ni. 

To rouse him short of thunder. Hark! the 

lute. 
The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women. 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel. 
While the great king of all we know of earth 
Lolls crowned with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligently by to be caught up 
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch 

it. 
Lo, where they come! already I perceive 
The reeking odors of the i^erfumed trains. 
And see the bright gems of the glittering gir]s,2 
At once his chorus and his council, flash 
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels. 
As femininely garbed, and scarce less female. 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man- 
queen. — 



1 [MS. — 

" He sweats in dreary, dulled effeminacy."] 

2 [MS.— 

" And see the gewgaws of the glittering girls."] 



He comes ! Shall I await him ? yes, and 

front him. 
And tell him what all good men tell each 

other. 
Speaking of him and his. They come, the 

slaves. 
Led by the monarch subject to his slaves.^ 

Scene II. — Enter SaRDANAPALUS effemi- 
nately dressed, his Head croivned with 
Flowers, and his Robe negligently fiowing, 
attended by a Train of Women and young 
Slaves. 

Sar. {speaking to some of his attendants). 

Let the pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnished forth 
For an especial banquet; at the hour 
Of midnight we will sup there:- see nought 

wanting. 
And bid the galley be prepared. There is 
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear 

river : 
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who 

deign 
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour, 
When we shail gather like the stars above u-. 
And you will form a heaven as bright ;is 

theirs ; 
Till then, let each be mistress of her time. 
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha,* choose. 
Wilt thou along with them or me ? 



3 [Salemenes is the direct opposite to selfishness; 
and the character, though slightly sketched, dis- 
plays little less ability than that of Sardanapalus. 
He is a stern, loyal, plain-spoken soldier and sub- 
ject; clear-sighted, just, and honorable in his ulti- 
mate views, though not more punctilious about the 
means of obtaining them than might be expected 
from a respectable satrap of ancient Nineveh, or a 
respectable vizier of the modern Turkish empire. 
To his king, in spite of personal neglect and fimily 
injuries, he is, throughout, pertinaciously attached 
and punctiliously faithful. To the king's rebels he 
is inclined to be severe, bloody, and even treacher- 
ous; an imperfection, however, in his character, 
to want which would, in his situation, be almost 
unnatural, and which is skilfully introduced as a 
contrast to the instinctive perception of virtue and 
honor which flashes out from the indolence of his 
master. Of the satrap, however, the faults as well 
as the virtues are alike the offspring of disinterested 
loyalty and patriotism. It is for his country and 
king that he is patient of injury; for tliem he is 
valiant; for them cruel. He has no ambition of 
personal power, no thirst of individual fame. In 
battle and in victory, " Assyria! " is his only war- 
cry. When he sends off the queen and princes, he 
is less anxious for his nephews and sister than fir 
the preservation of the line of Nimrod; and, in his 
last moments, it is the stipposed flight of his sov- 
ereign which alone distresses and overcomes him. — 
Heber.] 

* " The Ionian name had been still more com- 
prehensive, having included the Achaians and the 



SCENE II.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



583 



Myr. My lord 

Sar. My lord, my life ! why answerest 
thou so coldly ? 
It is the curse of kings to be so answered. 
Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say, 

wouldst thou 
Accompany our guests, or charm away 
The moments from me ? 

Myr. The king's choice is mine.l 

Sar. I pray thee say not so : my chiefest 
joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire, 
Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou art 

still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for 
others."-^ 
Myr. I would remain : I have no happiness 

Save in beholding thine ; yet 

Sar. Yet ! what YET ? 

Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

Myr. I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council ; it were better I retire. 

Sal. {comes forzoard and says). The Ionian 

slave says well : let her retire. 
Sar. Who answers ? How now, brother ? 
Sal. The queen's brother, 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 
Sar. {addressing his train'). As I have 
said, let all dispose their hours 
Till midnight, when again we pray your pres- 
ence. [ The court retiring. 



BcEotians, who, together with those to whom it w.^s 
afterwards confined, would make nearly the whole 
of the Greek nation; and among the orientals it yas 
always the general name for the Greeks." — Mtt- 
ford's Greece, vol. i. p. 199. 

1 [The chief charm and vivifying angel of the 
piece is Myrrha, the Greek slave of Sardanapalus 

— a beautiful, heroic, devoted, and ethereal being — 
in love with the generous and infatuated monarch — 
ashamed of loving a barbarian — and using all her 
influence over him to ennoble as well as to adorn 
his existence, and to arm him against the terrors of 
his close. Her voluptuousness is that of the heart 

— her heroism of the affections. If the part she 
takes in the dialogue be sometimes too subdued 
and submissive for the lofty daring of her character, 
it is still such as might become a Greek slave — a 
lovely Ionian girl, in whom the love of liberty and 
the scorn of death were tempered by the conscious- 
ness of what she regarded as a degrading passion, 
and an inward sense of fitness and decorum with 
reference to her condition. — Jeffrey. ^ 

- [Myrrha is a female Salenienes, in whom, with 
admirable skill, attachment to the individual Sar- 
danapalus is substituted for the gallant soldier's 
loyalty to the descendant of kings; and whose 
energy of expostulation, no less than the natural 
high tone of her talents, her courage, and her 
Grecian pride, is softened into a subdued and win- 
ning tenderness by the constant and painful recol- 
lection of her abasement as a slave in the royal 
harem; and still more by the lowliness of perfect 



{To Myrrh A, 3 who is going.) Myrrha! I 
thought thou wouldst remain. 
Myr. Great king, 

Thou didst not say so. 

Sar. But thou lookedst it : 

I know each glance of those Ionic eyes,'* 
Which said tliou wouldst not leave me. 

Myr. Sire! your brother 

Sal. His t^«J(7/-/' J brother, minion of Ionia ! 
IIovv darest thou name me and not blush ? 

Sar. Nntl)hish! 

Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make 

her crimson 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows, 
And then reproach her with thine own colcl 

blindness, 
Which will not see it. What, in tears, my 
Myrrha ? 
Sal. Let them flow on ; she weeps for 
more than one. 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 
Sar. Cursed be he who caused those tears 

to flow ! 
Sal. Curse not thyself — millions do that 

already. 
Sar. Thou dost forget thee : make me not 
remember 
I am a monarch. 

Sal. Would thou couldst ! 

Myr. My sovereign, 

I pray, and thou, too, prince, permit my ab- 
sence. 
Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl 
has checked 
Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 
An empire than thy presence. 

\Exit Myrrha. 
Sal. It may be. 

Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever ! 

Sar. Brotlier, 

I can at least command myself, who listen 
To language such as this: yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

Sal. 'Tis beyond 

That easy, far too easy, idle nature. 
Which I would urge" thee. O that I could 

rouse thee ! 
Though 'twere against myself. 



womanly love in the presence of and towards the 
object of her passion. No character can be draw n 
more natural than hers ; few ever have been drawn 
more touching and amiable. Of course she is not, 
nor could be, a Jewish or a Christian heroine; but 
she is a model of Grecian piety and nobility of spirit, 
and she is one whom a purer faith would have 
raised to the level of a Rebecca or a Miriam. — 
Heber.'] 

3 [In the original draught, " BybUs."'\ 
* [MS. — "I know each glance of those deep 
Greek-souled eyes."] 



584 



SARDAI^APALUS. 



[act 1. 



Sar. By the god Baal ! 

The man would make me tyrant. 

Sal. So thou art. 

Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains ? The despotism of 

vice — 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
The neglii^ence — -the apathy — the evils 
Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand ty- 
rants, 
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
Tlie worst acts of one energetic master, 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The fiilse and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power 
And -those who should sustain it; so that 

whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove flital : 
The first thy subjects have no heart to con- 
quer ; 
The last they rather would assist than van- 
quish. 
Sar. Why, what makes thee the mouth- 
piece of the people ? 
Sal. Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's 
wrongs ; 
A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly, 
In more than words; respect for Nimrod's 

line ; 
Also, another thing thou knowest not. 
Sar. What's that ? 

Sal. To thee an unknown word. 

Sar. Yet speak it ; 

I love to learn. 

Sal. Virtue. 

Sar. Not know the word ! 

Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting 

trumpet : 
I've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 
Sal. To change the irksome theme, then, 

hear of vice. 
Sar. From whom ? 

Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst 
listen 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 

Sar. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou know- 
est, patient, 
As thou hast often proved — speak out, what 
moves thee ? 
Sal. Thy peril. 
Sar. Say on. 

Sal. Thus, then : all the nations, 

For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 
Sar. 'Gainst me ! What would the slaves ? 
Sal. A king, 

Sar. And what 

Am I then ? 



-5"^/. In their eyes a nothing; but 

In mine a man who might be something still. 
Sar. The railing drunkards ! why, what 
would they have ? 
Have they not peace and plenty ? 

Sal. Of the first 

More than is glorious ; of the last, far less 
Than the king recks of. 

Sar. Whose then is the crime, 

But the false satraps, who provide no better ? 
Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who 
ne'er looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
Beyond them, 'tis but to some mountain palace. 
Till summer heats wear down. O glorious 

Baal! 
Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
Through the long centuries of thy renown. 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as 

hero. 
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and 

peril ! 
For what ? to furnish imposts for a revel. 
Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 

Sar. I understand thee — thou wouldst 
have me go 
Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
Which the Chaldeans read — the restless 

slaves 1 
Deserve that I should curse them with their 

wishes. 
And lead them forth to glory. 

Sal. Wherefore not? 

Semiramis — a woman only — led 
These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
Of Ganges. 

Sar 'Tis most true. And how returned ? 
Sal. Why, like a tnan — a hero; baffled, 
but 
Not vanquished. With but twenty guards, 

she made 
Good her retreat to Bactria. 

Sar. And how many 

Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 

Sal. Our annals say not. 

Sar. Then I will say for them — 

That she had better woven within her palace 

Some twenty garments, than with twenty 

guards 
Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens. 
And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the three. 
Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory ? 
Then let me live in ignominy ever. 

Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same 
fate. 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, ahhough she failed in India, 



1 [MS. " I have a mind 

To curse the restless slaves with their own wishes."] 



SCENE II.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



585 



Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
Which she once swayed — and thou might' st 
sway. 
Sar. . \ sway \\\(tm. — 

She but subdued them. 

Sal. It may be ere long 

That they will need her sword more than your 

sceptre. 

Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was 

there not ? 

I've heard my Greek girls speak of such — 

they say 
He was a god, that is, a Grecian god. 
An idol foreign to Assyria's worship. 
Who conquered this same golden realm of 

Ind 
Thou prat'st of, where Semiramis was van- 
quished. 
Sal. I have heard of such a man ; and 
thou perceiv'st 
That he is deemed a god for what he did. 
Sar. And in his godship I will honor 
him — 
Not much as man. What, ho ! my cup- 
bearer ! 
Sal. What means the king? 
Sar. To worship your new god 

And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 
Enter Cupbearer. 
Sar. {addressing the Cupbearer^ . Bring me 
the golden goblet thick with gems. 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. 

Hence, 
Fill full, and bear it quickly. \Exit Cupbearer. 
Sal. In this moment 

A fitting one for the resumption of 
Thy yet unslept-off revels? 

Re-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 
Sar. {taking the cup from him). Noble 

kinsman. 
If these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
And skirts of these our realms he not, this 

Bacchus 
Conquered the whole of India, did he not? 
-5"^/. He did, and thence was deemed a 

deity.l 
Sar. Not so : — of all his conquests a few 

columns. 
Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 
Thought them worth purchase and convey- 
ance, are 
The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed, 
The realms he -wasted, and the hearts he 

broke. 
But here, here in this goblet is his title 
To immortality — the immortal grape 
From which he first expressed the soul, and 

gave 



„ UMS.— 

" He did, and thence was deemed a god in story."] 



To gladden that of man, as some atonement 
For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
Had it not been for this, he would have been 
A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 
And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 
Here's that which deified him — let it now 
Humanize thee ; my surly, chiding brother, 
Pledge me to the Greek god ! 

Sal. For all thy realms 

I would not so blaspheme our country's 
creed. 
Sar. That is to say, thou thinkest him a 
hero. 
That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god. 
Because he turned a fruit to an enchantment. 
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, in- 
spires 
The young, makes weariness forget his toil. 
And fear her danger; opens a new world 
When this, the present, palls. Well, then / 

pledge thee 
And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
In good or evil to surprise mankind. [^Drinks. 
Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour? 
Sar. And if I did, 'twere better than a 
trophy. 
Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
My present purpose: since thou wilt not 

pledge me, 
Continue what thou pleasest. 
( To the Cupbearer.) Boy, retire. 

\_Exit Cupbearer. 
Sal. I would but have recalled thee from 
thy dream ; 
Better by me awakened than rebellion. 

Sar. Who should rebel ? or why ? what 
cause ? pretext ? 
I am the lawful king, descended from 
A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
What have I done to thee, or to the people. 
That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against 
me ? 
Sal. Of what thou hast done to me, I 

speak not. 
Sar. But 

Thou think'st that I have wronged the queen : 
is't not so ? 
Sal. Think/ Thou hast wronged her! 2 
Sar. Patience, prince, and hear me. 

She has all power and splendor of her sta- 
tion. 
Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs, 
The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 
I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 

2 [In many parts of this play, it strikes me that 
Lord Byron has more in his eye the case of a 
sinful Christian that has but one wife, and a sly 
business or so which she and her kin do not ap- 
prove of, than a bearded Oriental, like Sardanapa- 
lus, with three hundred wives and seven hundred 
concubines. — Hogg."\ 



586 



SARDANAPAL US. 



[act 



And loved her as most husbands love their 

wives. 
If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate, 
Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 
Sal. I pray thee, change the theme : my 
blood disdains 
Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord ! 
Nor would she deign to accept divided pas- 
sion 
With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
The queen is silent. 

Sar. And why not her brother ? 

Sal. I only echo thee the voice of empires, 
Which he who long neglects not long will gov- 
ern. 
Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves ! 
they murmur 
Because I have not shed their blood, nor led 

them 
To dry into the desert's dust by myriads, 
Or whiten with their bones the banks of 

Ganges ; 
Nor decimated them with savage laws. 
Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
Or Babylonian walls. 

Sal. Yet these are trophies 

More worthy of a people and their prince 
Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concu- 
bines, 
And lavished treasures, and contemned vir- 
tues. 
Sar. Oh, for my trophies I have founded 
cities : 
There's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
In one day — what could that blood-loving 

beldame, 
My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
Do more, except destroy them ? 

Sal. "Tis most true ; 

I own thy merit in those founded cities, 
Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
Which shames both them and thee to coming 
ages. 
Sar. Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though 
well built, 
Are not more goodly than the verse! Say 

what 
Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of life or rule, 
But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief 

record. 
Why, those few lines contain the history 
Of all things human : hear — " Sardanapalus, 
The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and love ; the rest's not worth a 
fillip."i 

I " For this expedition he took only a small 
chosen body of the phalanx, but all bis light troops. 
In the first day's march he reached Anchialus, a 
town said to have been founded by the king of As- 



Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscrip- 
tion, 
For a king to put up before his subjects ! 
Sar. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless 
set up edicts — 
" Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — 
Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bid- 
ding- 
Fall down and worship, or get up and toil." 
Or thus — " Sardanapalus on this spot 
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
These are their sepulchres, and this his tro- 
phy." 
I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
Ungroaning to the tomb : I take no license 
Which I deny to them. We all are men. 
Sal. Thy sires have been revered as gods — 
Sar. In dust 

And death, where they are neither gods nor 

men. 
Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 

Syria, Sardanapalus. The fortifications, in their 
magnitude and extent, still in Arrian's time, bore 
the character of greatness, which the Assyrians 
appear singularly to have affected in works of the 
kind. A monument representing Sardanapalus was 
found there, warranted by an inscription in Assyrian 
characters, of course in the old Assyrian language, 
which the Greeks, whether well or ill, interpreted 
thus: ' Sardanapalus, son of Anacyndaraxes, in one 
day founded Anchialus and Tarsus. Eat, drink, 
play: all other human joys are not worth a fillip.' 
Supposing this version nearly exact (for Arrian says 
it was not quite so), whether the purpose has not 
been to invite to civil order a people disposed to 
turbulence, rather than to recommend immoderate 
luxury, may perhaps reasonably be questioned. 
What, indeed, could be the object of a king of As- 
syria in founding such towns in a country so distant 
from his capital, and so divided from it by an im- 
mense extent of sandy deserts and lofty mountains, 
and, still more, how the inhabitants could be at 
once in circumstances to abandon themselves to the 
intemperate joys which their prince has been sup- 
posed to have recommended, is not obvious: but it 
may deserve observation that, in that line of coast, 
the southern of Lesser Asia, ruins of cities, evident- 
ly of an age after Alexander, yet barely named in 
history, at this day astonish the adventurous travel- 
ler by their magnificence and elegance. Amid the 
desolation which, under a singularly barbarian 
government, has for so many centuries been daily 
spreading in the finest countries of the globe, 
whether more from soil and climate, or from oppor- 
tunites for commerce, extraordinary means must 
have been found her communities to flourish there; 
whence it may seem that the measures of Sardana- 
palus were directed by juster views than have been 
commonly ascribed to him: but that monarch hav- 
ing been the last of a dynasty, ended by a revolu- 
tion, obloquy on his memory would follow of course 
from the policy of his successors and their parti- 
sans. The inconsistency of traditions concerning 
Sardanapalus is striking in Diodorus's account oi 
him." — Mitford's G?-eece, vol. x. p. 311. 



SCENE II.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



587 



At least they banqueted upon your gods, 
And died for lack of farther nutriment. 
Those gods were merely men ; look to their 

issue — 
I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 
But nothing godlike, — unless it may be 
The thing which you condemn, a disposition 
To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
The follies of my species, and (that's human) 
To be indulgent to my own. 

Sal. Alas ! 

The doom of Nineveh is sealed. — Woe — 

woe 
To the unrivalled city ! 

Sar. What dost dread ? 

Sal. Thou art guarded by thy foes : in a 
few hours 
The tempest may break out which overwhelms 

thee. 
And thine and mine ; and in another day 
What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 
Scu: What must we dread ? 
Sal. Ambitious treachery, 

Which has environed thee with snares ; but 

yet 
There is resource: empower me witli thy 

signet 
To quell the machinations, and I lay 
The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 
Sar. The heads — how many ? 
Sal. Must I stay to number 

When even thine own's in peril ? Let me go ; 
Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 
Sar. I will trust no man with unlimited 
lives. 
When we take those from others, we nor know 
What we. have taken, nor the thing we give. 
Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives who 

seek for thine ? 
Sar. That's a hard question — But I an- 
swer. Yes. 
Cannot the thing be done without ? Who are 

they 
Whom thou suspectest ? — Let them be ar- 
rested. 
Sal. I would thou wouldst not ask me ; 
the next moment 
Will send my answer through thy babbUng 

troop 
Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 
Trust me. 

Sar. Thou knowest I have done so ever : 
Take thou the signet. {^Gives the signet. 

Sal. I have one more request. — 

Sar. Name it. 

Sal. That thou this night forbear the ban- 
quet 
In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 

Sar. Forbear the banquet! Not for all 
the plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom 1 Let them come, 



And do their worst : I shall not blench for 

them ; 
Nor rise the sooner; nor forbear the goblet ; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — 1 fear them not, 
Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst 

thou not, if needful ? 
Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armor, 
and 
A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod 

forth : 
A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
And now I think on't, 'tis long since I've used 

them. 
Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, 
brother ? 
Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic tri- 
fling?— 
If 'need be, wilt thou wear them ? 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Oh 1 if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I'll use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turned into a distaff. 
Sal. They say thy sceptre's turned to that 

already. 
Sar. That's false ! but let them say so : the 
old Greeks, 
Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
The populace of all the nations seize 
Each calumny they can to sink their sover- 
eigns. 
Sal. They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 
Sar. No ; 

They dared not. They were kept to toil and 

combat ; 
And never changed their chains but for their 

armor. 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the 

license 
To revel and to rail; it irks me not. 
I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
A name from nothing. What are the rank 

tongues 
Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding. 
That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
Their noisome clamor ? 

Sal. You have said they are men ; 

As such their hearts are something. 

Sar. So my dogs' are ; 

And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed ; 
Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumul- 
tuous. 
Let them be tempered, yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain. 
Given or received ; we have enough within us, 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
Not to add to each other's natural burden 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 



588 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act I. 



By mild reciprocal alleviation, 

The fatal penalties imposed on life : 

But this they know not, or they will not know. 

I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe 

them ; 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit 

them, 
Passing my own as suited me. 

Sal. Thou stopp'st 

Short of the duties of a king; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 

Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
To be aught save a monarch ; else for me 
The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

-5"^/. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks 
to be so. 

Sar. What mean'st thou ? — 'tis thy secret ; 
thou desirest 
Few questions, and I'm not of curious nature. 
Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
The peaceful only : if they rouse me, better 
They had conjured up stern Nimrodfrom his 

ashes, 
" The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
To one wide desert chase of brutes, \N'\\owere, 
But would no more, by their own choice, be 

human. 
What they have found me, they belie ; that 

which 
They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 
To speak it worse ; and let them thank them- 
selves. 

Sal Then thou at last canst feel ? 

Sar. Feel! who feels not 

Ingratitude ? 

Sal. I will not pause to answer 

With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake 

that energy 
Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within 

thee. 
And thou may'st yet be glorious in thy reign, 
As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 

\^Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (solus) . Farewell I 

He's gone ; and on his finger bears my signet. 
Which is to him a sceptic. He is stern 
As I am heedless ; and the slaves deserve 
To feel a master. What may be the danger, 
I know not : he hath found it, let him quell it 
Must I consume my life — this little life — 
In guarding against all may make it less ? i 
It is not worth so much ! It were to die 



^ [The epicurean philosophy of Sardanapalus 
gives him a fine opportunity, in his conferences 
with his stern and confidential adviser, Salemenes, 
to contrast his own imputed ami fatal vices of ease 
and love of pleasure with the boasted virtues of his 
predecessors, war and conquest. — Jejjfrey.^ 



Before my hour, to live in dread of death. 
Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me. 
Because they are near ; and all who are remote, 
Because they are far. But if it should be so — 
If they should sweep me off" from earth and 

empire, 
Why, what is earth or empire of the earth ? 
I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my 

image : 
To die is no less natural than those 
Acts of this clay ! *Tis true I have not shed 
Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 
My name became the synonyme of death — 
A terror and a trophy. But for this 
I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 
If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 
Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vein 
Hath flowed for me, nor hath the smallest coin 
Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavished 
On objects which could cost her sons a tear : 
If then they hate me, 'tis because I hate not: 
If they rebel, 'tis because I oppress not. 
Oh, men! ye must be ruled with scythes, not 

sceptres, 
And mowed down like the grass, else all we 

reap 
Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
Of discontents infecting the fair soil, 
Making a desert of fertility. — 
I'll think no more. Within there, ho! 

Enter an ATTENDANT. 

Sar. Slave, tell 

The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her pres- 
ence. 
Attend. King, she is here. 

Myrrha enters. 

Sar. (apart to Attendant). Away ! 
{Addressing Myrrha.) Beautiful being! 

Thou dost almost anticipate my heart; 
It throbbed for thee, and here thou comest: 

let me 
Deem that some unknown influence, some 

sweet oracle. 
Communicates between us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

Myr. There doth. 

Sar. I know there doth, but not its name: 
What is it ? 

Myr. In my native land a God, 

And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
Exalted ; yet I own 'tis only mortal ; 
For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 

That is, it would be happy ; but 

[Myrrha pauses. 

Sar. There comes 

For ever some thing between us and what 
We deem our happiness : let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine is sealed. 

Myr, My lord ! — 



SCENE II.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



589 



Sar. My lord — my king — sire — sover- 
eign; thus it is — 
For ever thus, addressed with awe. I ne'er 
Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 
Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
Have gorged themselves up to equality, 
Or I have quaffed me down to their abase- 
ment. 
Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these 

names. 
Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time 

was I prized them ; 
That is, I suffered them — from slaves and 

nobles ; 
But when they falter from the lips I love, 
The lips which have been pressed to mine, a 

chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the false- 

liood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes 

me 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of 
flowers. 
Myr. Would that we could ! 
Sar. And dost thou feel this ? — Why ? 

Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou 
canst never know. 

Sar. And that is 

Myr, The true value of a heart; 

At least, a woman's. 

Sar. I have proved a thousand — 

A thousand, and a thousand. 

Myr. Hearts ? 

Sar. I think so. 

Myr. Not one ! the time may come thou 

may'st. 
Sar. It will. 

Here, Myrrha; Salemenes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more 

than I — 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

Myr. He did well. 

Sar. ^^ And say'st thou so ? 

Thou whom he spurned so harshly, and now 

dared 1 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers. 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

Myr. I should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou spakest of peril — 

Peril to thee 

Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares 

From Medes — and discontented troops and 
nations. 

1 [MS. " and even dared 

Profane our presence with his savage jeers."] 



I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of muttered threats and mysteries : 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more 

on't — 
But of the midnight festival. 

Myr. 'Tis time 

To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
Spurned his sage cautions ? 

Sar. What ? — and dost thou fear ? 

Myr. Fear ? — I'm a.Greek, and how should 
I fear death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my 
freedom ? 
Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ? 
Myr. I love. 

Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far — 
fa,r more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
Which, it maybe, are menaced ; — yet I blench 
not. 
Myr. That means thou lovest not thyself 
nor me ; 
For he who loves another loves himself. 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 
Sar. Lost ! — why, who is the aspiring chief 
who dared 
Assume to win them ? 

Myr. Who is he should dread 

To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 
Sar. Myrrha ! 

Myr. Frown not upon me: you have smiled 
Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augur. — King, I am your 

subject! 
Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved 

you ! — 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
Ahhough a Greek, and born a foe to mon- 

archs — 
A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature, 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 
Sar. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very 
fair. 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 
Myr. And without love where dwells se- 
curity ? 
Sar,- 1 speak of woman's love. 
Myr. The very first 

Of human life must spring from woman's 

breast. 
Your first small words are taught you from 
I her lips, 

i Your first tears quenched by her, and your 
I last sighs 



590 



SARDAMAPALUS. 



[act I. 



Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
Of watching the last hour of him who led 
them. 
Sar. My eloquent Ionian! thou speak'st 
music, 
The very chorus of the tragic song i 
I have heard thee talk of as the favorite pas- 
time 
Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not — calm 
thee. 
Myr. I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not 
speak 
About my fathers or their land. 

Sar. Yet oft 

Thou speakest of them. 

Myr. True — true : constant thought 

Will overflow in words unconsciously ; 
But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds 
me. 
Sar. Well, then, how wouldst thou save 

me, as thou saidst ? 
Myr. By teaching thee to save thyself, and 
not 
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of 
brethren. 
Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and 
warriors ; 
I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
Do more ? 

Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 

There needs too oft the show of war to keep 

The substance of sweet peace ; and, for a king, 

'Tis sometimes better to be feared than loved. 

Sar. And I have never sought but for the 

last. 
Myr. And now art neither. 
Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrha? 

Myr. I speak of civic popular love, self-\o\&, 
Which means that men are kept in awe and 

law. 
Yet not oppressed — at least they must not 

think so ; 
Or if they think so, deem it necessary, 
To ward off worse oppression, their own 

passions. 
A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and 

revel, 
And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 
Sar. Glory ! what's that ? 
Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

Sar. They cannot answer ; when the priests 
speak for them, 
'Tis for some small addition to the temple. 



1 [To speak of " the tragic song " as the favorite 
pastime of Greece, two hundred years before Thes- 
pis, is an anachronism. Nor could Myrrha, at so 
early a period of her country's history, have spoken 
of their national hatred of kings, or of that which 
was equal] V tlie growth of a later age, — their con- 
tempt for " barbarians." — Heber.'] 



Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's 

founders. 
Sar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, 
I cannot. 
But what wouldst have ? the empire has been 

founded. 
I cannot go on multiplying empires. 
Myr. Preserve thine own. 
Sar. At least, I will enjoy it. 

Come, Myrrha, let us go on to the Euphrates : 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared. 
And the pavilion, decked for our return, 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto the stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 

Crowned with fresh flowers like 

Myr. Victims. 

Sar. No, like sovereigns. 

The shepherd kings of patriarchal times. 
Who knew no brighter gems than summer 

wreaths, 2 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 
Enter PaNIA. 

Pan. May the king live for ever ! 

Sar. Not an hour 

Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
This language, which makes life itself a lie, 
Flattering dust with eternity.3 Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
Reiterate his prayer unto the king, 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace : when the general returns. 
He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

Sar. What ! am I then cooped ? 

Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
In mutinous m3'riads, I would still go forth. 

Pan. I must obey, and yet — 

Myr. Oh, monarch, listen. — 

How many a day and moon thou h.ist recline 1 
Within these palace w^alls in silken dalliance. 
And never shown thee to tffy people's longing ; 
Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified. 
The satraps uncontrolled, the gods unwor- 

shipped, 
And all things in the anarchy of sloth, 
Till all, save evil, slumbered through th» 

realm ! 
And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, — 
A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou 

not 
Yield to the few still faithful for a few hours, 



2 [MS.— 
" Who loved no gems so well as those of nature."] 
2 [MS. — " Wishing eternity to^dust."] 



SCENE II.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



591 



For them, for thee, for thy past father's race, 
And for thy son's inheritance ? 

Pan. 'Tis true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the prince 
Despatched me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
Which now has spoken. 

Sar, No, it must not be, 

Myr. For the sake of thy reahn ! 

Sar. Away ! 

Pan. For that 

Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine. 

Sar. These are mere fantasies ; 

There is no peril : — 'tis a sullen scheme 
Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal. 
And show himself more necessary to us. 

Myr. By all that's good and glorious take 
this counsel. 

Sar. Business to-morrow. 

Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 

Sar. Why let it come then unexpectedly 
'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love ; 
So let me fall like the plucked rose! — far 

better 
Thus than be withered. 

Myr. Then thou wilt not yield. 

Even for the sake of all that ever stirred 
A monarch into action, to forego 
A trifling revel. 

Sar. No. 

Myr. Then yield for mine; 

For my sake ! 

Sar. Thine, my Myrrha ! 

Myr. 'Tis the first 

Boon which I ever asked Assyria's king. 

Sar. That's true, and wer't my kingdom 
must be granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence 1 
Thou hear'st me. 

Pan. And obey. {Exit PAN I A. 

Sar. I marvel at thee. 

What is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 

Myr. Thy safety ; and the certainty that 
nought 
Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
Thus much from thee, but some impending 
danger. 

Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst 
thou? 

Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear 
for thee. 

Sar. To-morrow thou wilt smile at these 
vain fancies. 

Myr. If the worse come, I shall be where 
none weep. 
And that is better than the power to smile. 
And thou ? 

Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 

Myr. Where ? 

Sar. With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 
Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 



Fate made me what I am — may make m<i 

nothing — 
But either that or nothing must I be : 
I will not live degraded. 

Myr. Hadst thou felt 

Thus always, none would ever dare degrade 

thee. 
Sar, And who will do so now ? 
Myr. Dost thou suspect none ? 

Sar. Suspect! — that's a spy's office. Oh I 

we lose 
Ten thousand precious moments in vain 

words. 
And vainer fears. Within there ! — ye slaves, 

deck 
The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel: 
If I must make a prison of our palace, 
At least we'll wear our fetters jocundly; 
If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
The summer dwelling on its beauteous border, 
Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ! within 

there ! {Exit SARDANAPALUS. 

Myr. {sola). ■ Why do I love this man? 

My country's daughters 
Love none but heroes. But I have no coun- 

tiy! 
The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love 

him ; 
And that's the heaviest link of the long chain-- 
To love whoin we esteem not. Be it so : 
The hour is coming when he'll need all love, 
And find none. To fall from him now were 

baser 
Than to have stabbed him on his throne when 

highest 
Would have been noble in my country's 

creed : 
I was not made for either. Could I save him, 
I should not love him better, but myself; 
And I have need of the last, for I have 

fallen 
In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stran- 
ger : 
And yet methinks I love him more, perceiv- 
ing 
That he is hated of his own barbarians. 
The natural foes of all the blood of Greece, 
Could I but wake a single thought like those 
Which even the Phrygians felt when battling 

long 
'Twixt I lion and the sea, within his heart, 
He would tread down the barbarous crowds, 

and triumph. 
He loves me, and I love him ; the slave 

loves 
Her master, and would free him from his 

vices. 
If not, I have a means of freedom s-till, 
And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
May show him how alone a king can leave 
His throne, I must not lose him from my 

sight. [Exit, 



592 



SARDANAPAL US. 



[act II. 



ACT II. 

Scene L— The Portal of the same Hall of 
the Palace. 

Beleses (solus). The sun goes down: me- 
thinks he sets more slowly, 
Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 
How red he glares amongst those deepening 

clouds, 
Like the blood he predicts. If not in vain, 
Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which 

rise, 
I have outwatched ye, reading ray by ray 
The edicts of your orbs, which make Time 

tremble 
For what he brings the nations, 'tis the fur- 
thest 
Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 
An earthquake should announce so great a 

fall — 
A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, 
To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
Its everlasting page the end of what 
Seemed everlasting; but oh ! thou true sun! 
The burning oracle of all that live, 
As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 
Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 
Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 
Ali-glorious burst from ocean ? why not dart 
A beam of hope athwart the future years. 
As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh, hear 

me! 
I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 
I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall. 
And bowed my head beneath thy mid-day 

beams, 
When my eye dared not meet thee. I have 

watched 
For thee, and after thee, and prayed to thee. 
And sacrificed to thee, and read, and feared 

thee. 
And asked of thee, and thou hast answered — 

but 
Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 
Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowl- 
edge. 
To the delighted west, which revels in 
Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
Death, so it be but glorious ? 'Tis a sunset; 
And mortals may be happy to resemble 
The gods but in decay. 

Enter ArbaCES, by an inner door. 

Arb. Beleses, why 

So rapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
(iazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm of undiscovered day? 
Our business is with night — 'tis come. 

Bel. But not 

Gone. 

Arb, Let it roll on — we are ready. 



Bel. Yes. 

Would it were over ! 

Arb. Does the prophet doubt, 

To whom the very stars shine victory ? 

Bel. I do not doubt of victory — but the 
victor. 

Arb. Well, let thy science settle that. 
Meantime 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will out-sparkie our alhes — your planets. 
There (is no more to thwart us. The she- 
king. 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waters with his female mates. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
Quaffed by the line of Nimrod. 

Bel. 'Twas a brave one. 

Arb. And is a weak one — 'tis worn out — 
we'll mend it. 

Bel. Art sure of that ? 

Arb. Its founder was a hunter — 

I am soldier — what is there to fear ? 

Bel. The soldier. 

Arb. And the priest, it may be : but 

If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines? why stir me up? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less than mine ? 

Bel. Look to the sky ! 

Arb. I look. 

Bel. What seest thou ? 

Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 

The gathering of the stars. 

Bel. And midst them, mark 

Yon earliest, and the brightest,which so quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 

Arb. Well ? 

Bel. 'Tis thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 

Arb. {touching his scabbard) . My star is in 
this scabbard : when it shines, 
It shall out-dazzle comets. Let us think 
Of what is to be done to justify 
Thy planets and their portents. When we 

conquer, 
They shall have temples — ay, and priests — 

and thou 
Shalt be the pontiff of — what gods thou wilt; 
For I observe that they are ever just, 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

Bel. Ay, and the most devout for brave — 
thou hast not 
Seen me turn back from battle. 

A?-b. No ; I own thee 

As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain, 
As skilful in Chaldea's worship : now. 
Will it but please thee to forget the priest. 
And be the warrior ? 

Bel. Why not both ? 

Arb. The better : 

And yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
So little to effect. This woman's warfare 



SCENE I.] 



SARDAMAPALUS. 



593 



Degrades the very conqueror. To have 

plucked 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne, 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with 

steel, 
That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
But to upraise my sword against this silk- 
worm, 

And hear him whine, it may be 

Bel. Do not deem it : 

He has that in him which may make you strife 

yet; 
And were he all you think, his guards are 

hardy, 
And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 
Arb. They'll not resist. 
Bel. Why not ? they are soldiers. 

Arb. True, 

And therefore need a soldier to command 
them. 
Bel. That Salemenes is. 
Arb. But not their king. 

Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that 

governs. 
For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 

Bel. But 

Not from the council — there he is ever con- 
stant. 
Arb. And ever thwarted : what would you 
have more 
To make a rebel out of? A fool reigning, 
His blood dishonored, and himself disdained : 
Why, it is his revenge w^e work for. 

Bel. Could 

He but be brought to think so : this I doubt of. 
Arb. What, if we sound him ? 
Bel. Yes — if the time served. 

Enter Balea. 

Bal. Satraps ! The king commands your 
presence at 
The feast to-night. 

Bel. To heai ■ is to obey. 

In the pavilion ? 
Bal. No ; here in the palace. 

Arb. How ! in the palace ? it v\a's not thus 

ordered. 
Bal. It is so ordered now. 
Arb. And why ? 

Bal. I know not : 

May I retire ? 

Arb. Stay. 

Bel. {to Arb. aside). Hush ! let him go his 
way. 
{Alternately to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the 

monarch, kiss the hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter 

from _ 

His royal table at ffle hour — was't mid- 
night ? 



Bal. It was : the place, the hall of Nimrod. 
Lords, 
I humble me before you, and depart. 

S^Exit Balea. 
Arb. I like not this same sudden change of 
place; 
There is some mystery : wherefore should he 
change it ? 
Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times 
a day ? 
Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
And moves more parasangs in its intents 
Than generals in their marches, when they 

seek 
To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou 
muse ? 
Arb. He loved that gay pavilion, — it was 
ever 
His summer dotage. 

Bel. And he loved his queen — 

And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

Arb. Still — I like it not. 

If he has changed — why, so must we: the 

attack 
Were easy in the isolated bower. 
Beset with drowsy guards and drunken cour- 
tiers ; 

But in the hall of Nimrod 

Bel. Is it so ? 

Methoughtthe haughty soldier feared to mount 
A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

Arb. When the hour comes. 

Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily 

played for : 
But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 
Bel. I have foretold already — thou wilt 
win it : 
Then on, and prosper. 

Arb. Now were I a soothsayer, 

I would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obeyed — I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their'interpreter. Who's here ? 

Enter SALEMENES. 

Sal. Satraps ! 

Bel. My prince ! 

Sal. Well met — I sought ye both, 
But elsewhere than the palace. 

Arb. Wherefore so ? 

Sal. 'Tis not the hour. 

Arb. The hour 1 — what hour ? 

Sal. Of midnight. 

Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 

Sal. What, are you not invited ? 

Bel. Oh! yes — we iiad forgotten. 

Sal. Is it usual 
Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 



S04 



SARDANAPALVS. 



[act ii. 



Arb. Why — we but now received it. 
Sal. Then why here ? 

Arb. On duty. 
Sal. On what duty ? 

Bel. On the state's. 

We have the privilege to approach the pres- 
ence ; 
But found the monarch absent.i 

Sal. And I too 

Am upon duty. 

Arb. May we crave its purport ? 

Sal. To arrest two traitors. Guards ! With- 
in there ! 

Enter Guards. 

Sal. {continuing). Satraps, 

Your swords. 

Bel. {delivering his). My lord, behold my 

scimitar. 
Arb. {drawing his sword). Take mine. 
Sal. {advanci7ig) . I will. 

Arb. But in your heart the blade — 

The hilt quits not this hand.^ 

Sal. {drawing). How! dost thou brave me? 
'Tis well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 

Arb. Soldiers! Ay — 

Alone you dare not. 

SaL Alone! foolish slave — 

What is there in thee that a prince should 

shrink from 
Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength : thy tooth is nought without its 

venom — 
The serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 
Bel. {interposing). Arh2ices\ Are you mad? 
Have I not rendered 
M) sv/ord ? Then trust like me our sover- 
eign's justice. 
Arb. No — I will sooner trust the stars 
thou prat'st of. 
And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
Of my own breath and body — so far that 
None else shall claim them. 

Sal. {to the Guards). You hear hitn and me. 

Take him not, — kill. 
\_The Guards attack ARBACES, who defends 
himself valiantly and dexterously till they 
waver. 
Sal. Is it even so ; and must 

I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! See 
How you should fell a traitor. 

[Salemenes attacks Arb aces. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 



Sar, 



Upon your lives, I say 
drunken ? 



Hold your hands — 
What, deaf or 



1 [MS. — 

" But found the monarch claimed his privacy."] 

*[MS. "not else 

It quits this living hand."] 



My sword I Oh tool, I wear no sword : here, 

fellow. 
Give me thy weapon. \^To a Guard. 

[Sardanapalus j'^/a/t/zi?^ a sioordfrom one 
of the soldiers, and rushes betwee?i the com- 
batants — they separate. 
Sar. In my very palace ! 

What hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers ? 

Bel. .Sire, your justice. 

Sal. Or — 

Your weakness. 

Sar. {raising the sword). How! 
Sal. Strike ! so the blow's repeated 

Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a mo- 
ment, 
I trust, for torture — I'm content. 

Sar. What — him ! 

Who dares assail Arbaces ? 
Sal. I ! 

Sar. Indeed I 

Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what war- 
rant ? 
Sal. {showing the signet). Thine. 
Arb. {confused). The king's ! 

Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 

Sar. I parted not from this for such a pur- 
pose. 
Sal. You parted with it for your safety — I 
Employed it for the best. Pronounce in per- 
son. 
Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
I was your representative. 

Sar. Then sheathe 

Your swords. 

[Arbaces and Salemenes return their 

sivords to the scabbards. 
Sal. Mine's sheathed ; I pray you sheathe 
?}ot yours : 
"Tis the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 
Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my 
hand. 
{To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon 
back. 

Well, sirs. 
What doth this mean ? 

Bel. The prince must answer that. 

Sal. Truth upon my part, treason upon 

theirs. 
Sar. Treason — Arbaces! treachery and 
Beleses ! ' 
That were an union I will not believe. 
Bel. Where is the proof? 
Sal. I'll answer that, if once 

The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 
Arb. {to Sal.). A sword which hath been 
drawn as oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

Sal. And now against his brother. 

And in an hour or so against himself. 

Sar. That is not p^sible : he dared not ; 
no — 



SCENE I.J 



SARDANAPALUS. 



595 



No — I'll not hear of such things. These vain 

bickerings 
Are spawned in courts by base intrigues, and 

baser 
Hirehngs, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
You must have been deceived, my brother. 

Sal. First 

Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty. 
And I will answer all. 

Sar. Why, if I thought so — 

But no, it cannot be : tnc Mede Arbaces — 
The trusty, rough, true soldier — the best cap- 
tain 

Of all who discipline our nations No, 

I'll not insult him thus, to bid him render 
The scimitar to me he never yielded 
Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 
Sal. {delivering back the signet). Monarch, 

take back your signet. 
Sar. No, retain it; 

But use it with more moderation. 

Sal. Sire, 

I used it for your honor, and restore it 
Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

Sar. So I should: 

He never asked it. 

Sal. Doubt not, he will have it. 

Without that hollow semblance of respect. 
Bel. I know not what hath prejudiced the 
prince 
So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom 

none 
Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 
Sal. Peace, factious priest, and faithless 
soldier! thou 
Unit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's 

sin 
Is, at the least, a bold one, and not tempered 
By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 

Bel. Hear him. 

My liege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. 

Sar. Oh ! for that I pray you 

Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
Am mortal, and believing that the race 
From whence I sprung are — what I see them 
— ashes. 
Bel. King! Do not deem so: they are 
with the stars. 

And 

Sar. You shall join them there ere they 
will rise. 
If you preach further — Why, this is rank 
treason. 
Sal. My lord I 



Sar. To school me in the worship o\ 

Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
Give him his sword. 

Sal. My lord, and king, and brother, 

I pray ye pause. 

Sar. Yes, and be sermonized. 

And dinned, and deafened with dead men and 

Baal, 
And all Chaldea's starry mysteries. 
Bel. Monarch ! respect them, 
Sar. Oh I for that — I love them. 

I love to watch them in the deep blue vault, 
And to compare them with my Mynha's eyes ; 
I love to see their rays redoubled in 
The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave, 
As the light breeze of midnight crisps the 

broad 
And rolling water, sighing through the sedges: 
Which fringe his banks : but whether they 

may be 
Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods. 
As others hold, or simply lamps of night. 
Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know noi 

care not. 
There's something sweet in my uncertainty 
I would not change for your Chaldean lore; 
Besides, I know of these all clay can know 
Of aught above it, or below it — nothing. 
I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — 1 
When they shine on my grave I shall know 
neither. 
Bel. For neither, sire, say better. 
Sar. I will wait, 

If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 
In the mean time receive your sword, and 

know 
That I prefer your service militant 
Unto your ministry — not loving either. 

Sal. {aside). His lusts have made him mad. 
Then must I save him, 
Spite of himself. 

Sar. Please you to hear me, Satraps ! 

And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt 

thee 
More than the soldier; and would doubt thee 

all 
Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
In peace — I'll not say pardon — which must 

be 
Earned by the guilty; this I'll not pronounje 

ye, 

Although upon this breath of mine depends 
Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
But fear not — for that I am soft, not fearful — 
And so live on. Were I the thing some think 

me. 
Your heads would now be dripping the last 

drops 
Of their attainted gore from the high gates 



1 [MS.— 
know them beautiful, and see'them brilliant."] 



596 



^ARDANAPALU^. 



[act W. 



Of this our palace, into the dry dust, 
Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
They would be crowned to reign o'er — let 

that pass. 
As I have said, I will not dee7n ye guilty. 
Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit better men 
Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 
And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
Two men, w^ho, whatsoe'er they now are, v^ere 
Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 

Arb. Sire, this clemency 

Bel. {iuterrtiptlng him). Is worthy of 
yourself and, although innocent, 

We thank 

Sar. Priest! keep your thanksgivings for 
Belus ; 
His offspring needs none. 

Bel. But being innocent 

Sar. Be silent — Guilt is loud. If ye are 
loyal. 
Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not 
grateful. 
Bel. So we should be, were justice always 
done 
By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
Must oft receive her right as a mere favor. 

Sar. That's a good sentence for a homily, 
Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep'it 
To plead thy sovereign's cause before his 
people. 
Bel. I trust there is no cause. 
Sar. No cause, perhaps ; 

But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
In some mysterious twinkle of the stars. 
Which are your chronicles, I pray you note. 
That there are worse things betwixt' earth and 

heaven 
Than him who ruleth many and slays none; 
And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
Enough to spare even those who would not 

spare him 
Were they once masters — but that's doubtful. 

Satraps ! 
Your swords and persons are at liberty 
To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
I have no call for either. Salemenes, 
Follow me.^ 

[Exeunt SaRDANAPALUS, SALEMENES, 
and the Train, etc. leaving Arbaces and 

Beleses. 
Arb. Beleses ! 



1 [The second Act is, we think, a failure. The 
conspirators have a tedious dialogue, which is in- 
terrupted by Salemenes with a guard. Salemenes 
is followed by the king, who reverses all his meas- j 
ures, pardons Arbaces, because he will not believe i 
him guilty, and Beleses, in order to escape from 
his long speeches about the national religion. This ' 
incident only is wdll managed. — Hcber.'\ \ 



Bel. Now, what think you ? 

Arb. That we are lost. 

Bel. That we have won the kingdom, 

Arb. What? thus suspected — with the 
sword slung o'er us 
But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 
To be blown down by his imperious breath 
Which spared us — why, I know not. 

Bel. Seek not why ; 

But let us profit by the interval. 
The hour is still our own — our power the 

same — 
The night the same we destined. He hath 

changed 
Nothing except our ignorance of all 
Suspicion into such a certainty 
As must make madness of delay. 

Arb. And yet 

Bel. What, doubting still ? 

Arb. He spared our lives, nay, more, 

Saved them from Salemenes, 

Bel. And how long 

Will he so spare? till the first drunken miniite. 

Arb. Or sober, rather. Yethe did it nobiy ; 
Gave royally what we had forfeited 
Basely 

Bel. Say bravely. 

Arb. Somewhat of both, perhaps. 

But it has touched me, and, whate'er betide, 
I will no further on. 

Bel. And lose the world ! 

Arb. Lose any thing except my own esteem. 

Bel. I blush that we should owe our lives 
to such 
A king of distaffs I 

Arb. But no less we owe them ; 

And I should blush far more to take the 
grantor's 

Bel. Thou may'st endure whate'er thou 
wilt — the stars 
Have written otherwise. 

Arb. Though they came down, 

And marshalled me the way in all their bright- 
ness, 
I would not follow. 

Bel. This is weakness — worse. 

Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead, 
And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 

Arb. Methought he looked like Nimrod as 
he spoke. 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
Looking the monarch of the kings around it, 
And sways, while they but ornament, the tem- 
ple. 

Bel. I told you that you had too much 
despised him, 
And that there was some royalty within him — 
What then ? he is the nobler foe. 

Arb. But we 

The meaner. — Would he had not spared us ! 

Bel. So — 

Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 



SCENE I.J 



SARDANAPALUS. 



597 



Alb. No — but it had been better to havj 
died 
Than hve ungrateful. 

BcL Oh, the souls of some men ! 

Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, 

and 
Fools treachery — and, behold, upon the 

sudden. 
Because for something or for nothing, this 
Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turned 
Into — what shall I say ? — Sardanapalus ! 
I know no name more ignominious. 

Arb. But 

An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
Had held his life but lightly — as it is, 
I must forgive you, even as he forgave us — 
Semiramis herself would not have done it. 

Bel. No — the queen liked no sharers of the 
kingdom. 
Not even a husband. 

A7-b. I must serve him truly 

Bel. And humbly ? 

Arb. No, sir, proudly — being honest. 

I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaven ; 
And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
You may do your own deeming — you have 

codes, 
And mysteries, and corollaries of 
Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
And must pursue but what a plain heart 

teaches. 
And now you know me. 

Bel. Have you finished ? 

Arb. Yes — 

With you. 

Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 
As quit me ? 

Arb. That's a sacerdotal thought 

And not a soldier's. 

Bel. Be it what you will — 

Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 

Arb. No — 

There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
Than in a phalanx. 

Bel. If it must be so — 

I'll on alone. 

Arb. Alone ! 

Bel. Thrones hold but one. 

Arb. But this is filled. 

Bel. With worse than vacancy — 

A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
I have still aided, cherished, loved, and urged 

you ; 
Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
Seemed to consent, and all events were 

friendly, 
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness; but now, r.ither 
Than see my country languish, I will be 
Her savior or the victim of her tyrant, 



Or one or both, for sometimes both are one ; 
And if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

Arb. Your servant ! 

Bel. Why not ? better than be slave, 

T\\Q pardoned slave of she Sardanapalus ! 

Enter Pan I A. 

Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the 
king. 

Arb. It is obeyed ere spoken. 

Bel. Notwithstanding, 

Let's hear it. 

Pan. Forthwith, on this very night, 

Repair to your respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 

Bel. With our troops ? 

Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

Arb. But 

Bel. It must be obeyed : 

Say, we depart. 

Pan. My order is to see you 

Depart, and not to bear vour answer.' 

Bel {a:ide). ' Ay! 

Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 

Pan. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
Of honor which befits your rank, anri wait 
Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 
{^Exit Pania. 

Bel. Now then obey ! 

Arb. Doubtless. 

Bel. Yes, to the gates 

That grate the palace, which is now our 

prison — 
No further. 

Arb. Thou hast harped the truth indeed ! 
The realm itself, in all its wide extension, 
Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 

Bel. Graves ! 

Arb. If I thought so, this good sword 
should dig 
One more than mine. 

Bel. It shall have work enough. 

Let me hope better than thou augurest ; 
At present, let us hence as best we may. 
Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
This order as a sentence ? 

Arb. Why, what other 

Interpretation should it bear ? it is 
The very policy of orient monarchs — 
Pardon and poison — favors and a sword — 
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
How many satraps in his father's time — 
For he I own is, or at least 7i'./.r, bloodless — 

Bel. But 7cv7/not, can not be so now. 

Arb. I doubt it. 

How many satraps have I seen set out 
In his sire's day for miglity vice-royalties, 
Whose tombs are on their path ! 1 know not 

how. 
But they all sickened by the way, it was 
So long and heavy. 



59S 



SAKDANAPALUS. 



[act II 



Bel. Let us but regain 

The free air of the city, and we'll shorten 
The journey. 

Arb. 'Twill be shortened at the gates, 

It may be. 

Bel. No ; they hardly will risk that. 

They mean us to die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls, 
Where we are known, and may have partisans : 
If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 

Arb, If I but thought he did not mean my 
life 

Bel. Fool! hence — what else should des- 
potism alarmed 
Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops and 
march. 

Arb. Towards our provinces ? 

Bel. No ; towards your kingdom. 

There's time, there's heart, and hope, and 

power 2nd means. 
Which their half measures leave us in full 

scope. — 
Away! 

Arb. And I even yet repenting must 
Relapse to guilt ! 

Bel. Self-defence is a virtue, 

Sole bulwark of the right. Away, I say ! 
Let's leave this place, the air grows thick and 

choking. 
And the walls have a scent of night-shade — 

hence ! 
Let us not leave them time for further counsel. 
Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
Our quick departure hinders our good escort. 
The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
The orders of some parasangs from hence : 

Nay, there's no other choice, but hence, I 

say. 
\^Exit with ARBACES, loho follotvs reliictantly.^ 



1 [Avbaces is a mere common-place warrior; and 
Beleses, on whom, we suspect, Lord Byron has 
bestowed more than usnal pains, is a very ordinary 
and uninteresting villain. Sardanapahis, indeed, 
and Salemenes, are both made to speak of the wily- 
Chaldean as the master-mover of the plot, as a 
politician in whose hands Arbaces is but a " war- 
like puppet; " and Diodorus Sicuhis has repre- 
sented him, in fact, as the first instigator of Arbaces 
to his treason, and as making use of his priestly 
character, and his supposed power of foretelling 
future events, to inflame the ambition, to direct the 
measures, to sustain the hopes, and to reprove the 
despondency of his comrade. But of all this noth- 
ing appears in the tragedy. Lord Byron has 
been so anxious to show his own contempt for the 
priest, that he has not even allowed him that share 
of cunning and evil influence which was necessary 
for the part which he had to fill. Instead of being 
the original, the restless and unceasing prompter to 
bold and wicked measures, we find him, on his first 
appearance, hanging back from tlie enterprise, and 
chilling the energy of Arbaces by an enumeration 
of the real or possible difficulties which might yet 



Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes. 

Sar. Well, all is remedied, and without 
bloodshed. 
That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
We are now secure by these men's exile. 

Sal. Yes, 

As he who treads on flowers is from the ad^er 
Twined round their roots. 

Sar. Why, what wouldst have me do ? 

Sal. Undo what you have done. 

Sar. Revoke my pardon ? 

Sal. Replace the crown now tottering on 
your temples. 

Sar. That were tyrannical. 

Sal. But sure. 

Sar. We are so. 

What danger can they work upon the frontier ? 

Sal. Tiiey are not there yet — never shoulu 
they be so. 
Were I well listened to. 

Sar. Nay, I have listened 

Impartially to thee — why not to tiiem ? 

Sal. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
I take my leave to order forth the guard. 

Sar. And you will join us at the banquet ? 

Sal. Sire, 

Dispense with me — I am no wassailer : 
Command me in all service save the Bac- 
chant's. 

Sar. Nay, but 'tis fit to revel now and then. 

Sal. And fit that some should watch for 
those who revel 
Too oft. Am I permitted to depart ? 

Sar. -Yes Stay a moment, my good 

Salemenes, 
My brother, my best subject, better prince 
Than I am king. You should have been the 

monarch, 
And I — I know not what, and care not ; but 



impede its execution. Instead of exercising that 
power over the mind of his comrade which a re- 
ligious imposter may well possess over better and 
more magnanimous souls than his own, Beleses is 
made to pour his predictions into incredulous 
ears; and Arbaces is as mere an epicurean in his 
creed as Sardanapalus. When we might have ex- 
pected to find him gazing with hope and reverence 
on the star which the Chaldean points out as his 
natal planet, the Median warrior speaks, in the 
language of Mezentius, of the sword on which his 
confidence depends, and instead of being a tool in 
the hand of the pontiff", he says almost every thing 
which is likely to aff"ront him. Though Beleses 
is introduced to us as engaged in devotion, and as 
a fervent worshipper of the Sun, he is nowhere 
made "either to feel or to counterfeit that profes- 
sional zeal against Sardanapalus which his open 
contempt of the gods would naturally call for; and 
no reason appears, throughout the play, why 
Arbaces should follow, against his own conscience 
and opinion the counsels of a man of whom he 
speaks with dislike and disgust, and whose pre- 
tences to inspiration and sanctity he treats with 
unmingled ridicule. — Hebey.'\ 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



599 



Think not I am insensible to all 

Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough yet 

kind, 
Though oft reproving, sufferance of my follies. 
If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 
That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 
The advice was sound ; but, let them live : we 

will not 
Cavil about their lives — so let them mend 

them. 
Their banishment will leave me still sound 

sleep. 
Which their death had not left me. 

Sal. Thus you run 

The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
A moment's pang now changed for years of 

crime. 
Still let them be made quiet. 

Sar. Tempt me not : 

My word is past. 
Sal, But it may be recalled. 

Sar. 'Tis royal. 

Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 

This half indulgence of an exile serves 
But to provoke — a pardon should be full, 
Or it is none. 

Sar. And who persuaded me 

After I had repealed them, or at least 
Only dismissed them from our presence, who 
Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 
Sal. True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, 
sire. 
If they e'er reached their satrapies — why, 

then, 
Reprove me more for my advice. 

Sar. And if 

They do not reach them — look to it ! — in 

safety. 
In safety, mark me — and security — 
Look to thine own. 

Sal. Permit me to depart ; 

Their safety shall be cared for. 

Sar. Get thee hence, then ; 

And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 
Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sover- 
eign. {^Exit Salemenes. 
Sar. {solus). That man is of a temper too 
severe ; 
Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
From all the taints of common earth — while I 
Am sofier clay, impregnated with flowers: 
But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
If I have erred this time, 'tis on the side 
Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes 

pleasure. 
A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
To count its throbs, not quicken them, and 

ask 
Questions which mortal never dared to ask 
me, 



Nor Baal, though an oracular deity — i 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim. 
His brows to changed expression, till at times 
I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joy- 
ous — 
And here comes Joy's true herald. 

Enter Myrrha. 
Myr. King! the sky 

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder. 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and 

show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest.'^ 
Will you then quit the palace ? 

Sar. Tempest, say'st thou ? 

Myr. Ay, my good lord. 
Sar. For my own part, I should bo 

Not ill content to vary the smooth scene. 
And watch the warring elements ; but this 
Would little suit the silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, 

Myrrha, 
Art thou of those who dread the roar of 
clouds ? 
Myr. In my own country we respect their 
voices 
As auguries of Jove.3 

Sar. Jo*e I — ay, your Baal -^ 

Ours also has a property in thunder. 
And ever and anon some faUing bolt 
Proves his divinity, — and yet sometimes 
Strikes his own altars. 

Afyr. That were a dread omen. 

Sar. Yes — for the priests. Well, we will 
not go forth 
Beyond the palace walls to-night, but make 
Our feast within. 

Afyr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 

Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. 

The gods 
Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself. 
And flash this storm between thee and thy 

foes. 
To shield thee from them. 

Sar. Child, if there be peril, 

Methinks it is the same within these walls 
As on the river's brink. 

Myr. Not so; these walls 

Are high and strong, and guarded. Treason 

has 
To penetrate through many a winding way. 



1 [MS. — 

" Nor silent Baal, our imaged deity, 

Although his marble face looks frowningly 
As the dull shadows," etc.] 

2 [MS.— 

I" dis.,„. flashes j ?j'4-rch1:,'? i -p--"] 

3 [MS. — " As from the gods to augur."] 



600 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act III. 



And massy portal ; but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

iSar. No, nor in the palace, 

Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle 

sits 
Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king, 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm : 
The men, or innocent or guiUy, are 
Banished, and far upon their way. 

Myr. They live, then ? 

Sar. So sanguinary ? Thou. ! 
Myr. I would not shrink 

From just infliction of due punishment 
On those who seek your life : wer't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The princely Saiemencs. 

Sar. This is strange ; 

The gentle and the austere are both against 

me. 
And urge me to revenge. 

Myr. 'Tis a Greek virtue. 

Sar. But not a kingly one — I'll none on't ; 
or 
If ever I indulge in't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

Alyr. These men sought to be so. 

Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and 
springs 

From fear 

Myr. For you. 

Sar. No matter, still 'tis fear. 

I have observed your sex, once roused to 

wrath, 
Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childish helplessness of Asian women. i 
Myr. My lord, I am no boaster of my 
love. 
Nor of my attributes; I have shared your 

splendor 
And will partake your fortunes. You may 

live 
To find one slave more true than subject 

myriads : 
But this the gods avert ! I am content 
To be beloved on trust for what I feel, 
Rather than prove it to you in your griefs,^ 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 
Sar. Grief cannot come where perfect love 
exists. 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare away. Let's 
in — 



1 [MS.— 

*' The weaker merit of our Asian women."] 

2 [MS.— 

" Rather than prov^ that love to you in griefs."] 



The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited guests who grace our 
feast. \Exeunt? 



ACT III. 

Scene I.— The Hall of the Palace illumi- 
nated. — SARDANAPALUS and kis Guests at 
Table. — A Storm without, and Thunder 
occasionally heard^during the Banquet. 

Sar. Fill full ! why this is as it should be : 
here 
Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 
Zam. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, 

pleasure sparkles. 
Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod's 
huntings, 
Or my wild grandam's chase in search of king- 
doms 
She could not keep when conquered ? 

Alt. Mighty though 

They were, as all thy royal line have been. 
Yet none of those who went before have 

reached 
The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true 
glory. 
Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which 
glory 
Is but the path. What is it that we seek ? 
Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to 

it, 
And not gone tracking it through human 

ashes. 
Making a grave with every footstep, 

7.a7n. No ; 

All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
The king of peace, who holds a world in jubi- 
lee. 
Sar. Art sure of that ? I have heard other- 
wise ; 
Some say that there be traitors. 

Zam. Traitors they 

Who dare to say so ! — 'Tis impossible. 
What cause ? 

Sar. What cause? true, — fill the goblet 
up; 
We will not think of them : there are none 

such, 
Or if there be, they are gone. 

Alt. Guests, to my pledge ! 

Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
The safety of the king — the monarch, say I ? 
The god Sardanapalus ! 

s [The second Act, which contains the details of 
the conspiracy of Arbaces, its detection by the vigi- 
lance of Salcmenes, and the too rash and hasty for- 
giveness of the rebels by the king, is, on the whole, 
heavy and uninteresting. — Jeffrey.^ 



SCENE 1.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



601 



[Zames and the Guests kneel and exclaim — 
Mightier tlian 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 

[// thunders as they kneel ; some start up 
in confusion. 

Zam. Why do you rise, ray friends ? in 
that strong peal 
His father gods consented. 

Myr. Menaced, rather. 

King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety ? 

Sar. Impiety! — nay, if the sires who 
reigned 
Before me can be gods, I'll not disgrace 
Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends ; 
Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there. 
I seek but to be loved, not worshipped, 

Alt. Both — 

Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 

Sar. Methinks the thunders still increase : 
it is 
An awful night. 

Myr. Oh yes, for those who have 

No palace to protect their worshippers. 

Sar. That's true, my Myrrha ; and could I 
convert 
My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I'd do it. 

Afyr. Thou'rt no god, then, not to be 
Able to work a will so good and general, 
As thy wish would imply. 

Sar. And your gods, then. 

Who can, and do not ? 

Myr. Do not speak of that. 

Lest we provoke them. 

Sar. True, they love not censure 

Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has 

struck me : 
Were there no temples, would there, think ye, 

be 
Air worshippers ? that is, when it is angry. 
And pelting as even now. 

Myr. The Persian prays 

Upon his mountain. 

Sar. Yes, when the sun shines. 

Myr. And I would ask if this your palace 
were 
Unroofed and desolate, how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the king lay low ? 

Alt. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
The Assyrians know no pleasure but their 

king's. 
And homage is their pride, 

Sar. Nay, pardon, guests, 

The fair Greek's readiness of speach. 

Alt. Pardon ! sire : 

We honor her of all things next to thee. 
Hark ! what was that ? 

7Mni, That ! nothing but the jar 

Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 

Alt. It sounded like the clash of — hark 
again! 



Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 

Sar. No more. 

Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ? 
Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st. 
Who in thy country threw 

Enter PaNIA, with his sword and garments 
bloody, and disordered. The Guests rise in 
confusion.'^ 

Pan. {to the Guards). Look to the portals ; 
And with your best speed to the walls without. 
Your arms ! To arms ! The king's in danger. 

Monarch ! 
Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. 

Sar. Speak on. 

Pan. It is 
As Salemenes feared ; the faithless satraps 

Sar. You are wounded — give some wine. 
Take breath, good Pania. 

Pan. 'Tis nothing — a mere flesh wound. 
I am worn 
More with my speed to warn my sovereign. 
Than hurt in his defence, 

Myr. Well, sir, the rebels ? 

Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reached 
Their stations in the city, they refused 
To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
Which I was delegated with, they called 
Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 

Myr. All? 

Pan. Too many. 

Sar. Spare not of thy free speech, 

To spare mine ears the truth. 

Pan. My own slight guard 

Were faithful, and what's left of it is still so. 

Myr. And are these all the force still faithful? 

Pan. No — 

The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs. 
Are numerous, and make strong head against 
The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, where they mean 
To centre all their force, and save the king, 
{He hesitates.) I am charged to 

Myr. 'Tis no time for hesitation. 

Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore the 
king 
To arm himself, although but for a moment. 
And show himself unto the soldiers : his 
Sole presence in this instant might do more 
Than hosts can do in his behalf. 

Sar. Wliat, ho ! 

My armor there. 

yl/yr. And wilt thou ? 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Ho, there ! — but seek not for the buckler : 'tis 



1 [Early in the third Act, the royal banquet is 
disturbed by sudden tidings of treason and revolt; 
and then the reveller blazes out into the hero, and 

1 the Greek blood of Myrrha mounts to its proper 

I office! — Jeffrey. 'X 



602 



SARDAMAPALUS. 



[act III. 



Too heavy : — a light cuirass and my sword. 
\Viiere are the rebels ? 

Fan. Scarce a furlong's length 

From the outward wall the fiercest conflict 
rages. 
Sar. Then I may charge on horseback. 
Sfero, ho ! 
Order my horse out. — There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 

{Exit Sfero y^/- the a?-mor. 
Myr. How I do love thee ! 
Sar. I ne'er doubted it. 

Myr. But now I know thee. 
Sar. {to his Attendant). Bring down my 
spear too. — 
Where's Salemenes ? 

Pan. Where a soldier should be, 

In the thick of the fight. 

Sar. Then hasten to him Is 

The path still open, and communication 
Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx ? 

Pan. 'Twas 

When I late left him, and I have no fear : 
Our troops were steady, and the phalanx 
formed. 
Sar. Tell him to spare his person for the 
present, 
And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
I come. 
Pan. There's victory in the very word. 

{Exit Pania. 
Sar. Altada — Zames — forth, and arm ye ! 
There 
Is all in readiness in the armory. 
See that the women are bestowed in safety 
In the remote apartments : let a guard 
Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 
The post but with their lives — command it, 

Zames. 
Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; 
Your post is near our person. 

{Exeunt ZAMES, ALTADA, and all save 
MVRRHA. 

Enter SferO and others with the King's 
Arms, etc. 

Sfe. King! your armor. 

Sar. {arming himself). Give me the cui- 
rass — so my baldric ; now 

My sword : I had forgot the helm — where is 
it? 

That's well — no, 'tis too heavy: you mistake, 
too — 

It was not this I meant, but that which bears 

A diadem around it. 

Sfe. Sire, I deemed 

That too conspicuous from the precious 
stones 

To risk your sacred brow beneath — and trust 
me, 

This is of better metal, though less rich. 



Sar. You deemed ! Are you too turned a 
rebel i Fellow ! 
Your part is to obey : return, and — no — 
It is too late — I will go forth without it. 
Sfe. At least, wear this. 
Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 'tis 

A mountain on my temples. 

Sfe. Sire, the meanest 

Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
All men will recognize you — for the storm 
Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her 
brightness. 
Sar. I go forth to be recognized, and 
thus 
Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear! I'm 
armed. 

{In going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
Sfero — I had forgotten — bring the mirror.i 
Sfe. The mirror, sire ? 
Sar. Yes, sir, of polished brass. 

Brought from the spoils of India — but be 
speedy.2 {Exit Sfero. 

Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Why went you not forth with the other dam- 
sels ? 
Myr. Because my place is here. 

Sar. And when I am gone 

Myr. I follow. 

Sar. You! to battle? 

Myr. If it were so, 

'Twere not the first Greek girl had trod the 

path. 
I will await here your return. 

Sar. The place 

Is spacious, and the first to be sought out. 
If they prevail; and, if it be so, 

And I return not 

Myr. Still we meet again. 

Sar. How ? 

1 [" In the third Act, where Sardanapalus calls 
for a mirror to look at himself in his armor, recol- 
lect to quote the Latin passage from Juvenal upon 
Otho (a similar character, who did the same thing) . 
Gifford will help you to it. The trait is, perhaps, 
too familiar, but it is historical (of Otho, at least), 
and natural in an effeminate character." — Byrot. 
to Mr. M.] 

2 [" Ille tenet speculum pathici gestamen Othonis, 

Actoris Arunci spolium, quo se ille videbat 
Armatum, cum jam toUi vexilla juberet. 
Res memoranda novis annaJibus, atque 

recenti 
Historia, speculum civilis farcina belli." 
Jiiv. Sat. ii. 
"This grasps a mirror — pathic Otho's boast 
(Auruncan Actor's spoil), where, while his 

host. 
With shouts, the signal of the fight required. 
He viewed his mailed form; viewed, and 

admired! 
Lo, a new subject for the historic page, 
A MIRROR, midst the arms of civil rage! " 

Giford.] 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



603 



Myr. In the spot where all must meet at 
last- 
In Hades! if there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Styx : and if there be not, 
In ashes. 

Sar. Barest thou so much? 

Myr. I dare all things 

Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 

Re-enter SferO with the mirror. 

Sar. {looking at himself). This cuirass 
fits me well, the baldric better. 
And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 
\FUngs away the helmet after trying it 
• again. 
Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove 

them. 
Altada ! Where's Altada ? 

Sfe. Waiting, sire. 

Without : he has your shield in readiness. 

Sar. True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, dei ived from age to age. 
Myrrha, embrace me; — yet once more — 

once more — 
Love, me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 
Myr. Go forth, and conquer ! 

{Exeunt SARDANAPALUS and SFERO.1 
Now, I am alone. 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
Not for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth 

yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave; 
And yet I love hiin more. Oh, mighty Jove ! 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian. 
Who knows not of Olympus ! yes, I love him 

Now, now, far more than Hark — to the 

war shout ! 
Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

\She draws forth a small vial. 
This cunning Colchian poison, which my 

father 
Learned to compound on Euxine shores, and 

taught me 
How to preserve, shall free me! It had freed 

me 
Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 



1 [In the third Act, the king and his courtiers are 
disturbed at their banquet by the breaking out of 
the conspiracy. The battle which follows, if we 
overlook the absurdity, which occurs during one 
part of it, of hostile armies drawn up against each 
other in a dining-room, is extremely well told; and 
Sardanapalus displays the precise mixture of effem- 
inacy and courage, levity and talent, which belongs 
to his character. — Heber.'\ 



I half forgot I was a slave : — where all 
Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
So they are served in turn by something lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Again that shout ! and now the 

clash 
Of arms — and now — and now 

Enter ALTADA. 

Alt. Ho Sfero, ho ! 

Myr. He is not here ; what wouldst thou 
with him ? How 
Goes on the conflict ? 

Alt. Dubiously and fiercely. 

Myr. And the king? 

Alt. Like a king. I must find Sfero 

And bring him a new spear and his own hel- 
met. 
He fights till now bare-headed, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his 

face, 
And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light, 
His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features. 
And the broad fillet which crowns both. 

Myr. Ye gods, 

Who fulminate o'er my father's land, protect 

him I 
Were you sent by the king ? 

Alt. By Salemenes, 

Who sent me privily upon this charge. 
Without the knowledge of the careless sover- 
eign. 
The king ! the king fights as he revels I ho I 
What, Sfero ! I will seek the armory — 
He must be there. [Exit ALTADA. 

Alyr. 'Tis no dishonor— no — 

'Tis no dishonor to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wished 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile distaft'; surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once. 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to man- 
hood, 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle, 
As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 

Enter an Officer. 
Officer. Lost, 

Lost almost past recovery. Zames! Where 
Is Zames ? 

Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 

1 o watch before the apartment of the women. 

[Exit Officer. 

Myr. (sola). He's.gone ; and told no more 

than that all's lost 1 



604 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act III. 



What need have I to know more ? In those 

words, 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
With life, are merged ; and I, too, with thegreat, 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least, 
My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
Shall count me with his spoils. 

Etiier PaNIA. 

Pan. Away with me, 

Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that's left us now. 

Myr. The king ? 

Pa?i. Sent me here to conduct you hence, 
beyond 
The river, by a secret passage. 

Myr. Then 

He lives 

Pan. And charged me to secure your life. 
And beg you to Hve on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

Myr. Will he then give way ? 

Pan. Not till the last. Still, still he does 
whate'er 
Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
The very palace. 

Myr. They are here, then : — ay, 

Their shouts come ringing through the ancient 

halls. 
Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
This fatal night. Farewell,- Assyria's line ! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod! Even the name 
Is now no more. 

Pan. Away with me — away ! 

Myr. No: I'll die here! — Away, and tell 
your king 
I loved him to the last. 

Enter SARDANAPALUS and SALEMENES with 
Soldiers. Pania quits Myrrha, and 
ranges hi7nself with them. 

Sar. Since it is thus, 

We'll die where we were born — in our own 

halls. 
Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have 

despatched 
A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
All fresh and faithful ; they'll be here anon. 
All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania returns towards MYRRHA. 
Sal. We have breathing time ; yet once 
more charge, my friends — 
One for Assyria ! 

Sar. Rather say for Bactria 1 
My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
King of your nation, and we'll hold together 
This realm as province. 

Sal. Hark! they come — they come. 

Enter Beleses and Arbaces with the Rebels. 



Arb. Set on, we have them in the toil. 

Charge ! charge ! 
Bel. On ! on ! — Heaven fights for us and 

with us — On ! 
\_Thcy charge the King and SaleMENES 
with their Troops, who defeiid themselves 
till the Arrival of ZKmY.%, with the Guard 
before mentioned. The Rebels are then 
driven off, and pur sued by Salemenes, etc. 
As the King is going to join the pursuit, 
Beleses crosses him. 
Bel. Ho! tyrant — /will end this war. 
Sar. Even so, 

My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject: — yield, I pray 

■ thee. 
I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
Bel. Thine hour is come. 
Sar. No, thine, — I've lately read, 

Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
And ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crushed. 

Bel. But not by thee. 

[ They fight ; BELESES is wounded and dis- 
armed. 
Sar. {raising his sword to dispatch him, ex- 
claims') — 
Now call upon thy planets, will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit ? 
\A party of Rebels enter and rescue BELESES. 
They assail the King, who, in turn, is res- 
cued by a Party of his Soldiers, who drive 
the Rebels off. 
The villain was a prophet after all. 
Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 

\Exit in pursuit. 
Myr. {to Pan.). Pursue! Why stand'st thou 
here, and leavest the ranks 
Of fellow soldiers conquering without thee ? 
Pan. The king's command was not to quit 

thee. 
Myr. • Me ! 

Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
I need no guard : what, with a world at stake, 
Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say, 
Or thou art shamed! Nay, then, /will go forth, 
A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife. 
And bid thee guard me there — where thou 

shouldst shield 
Thy sovereign. [Exit MVRRHA. 

Pan. Yet stay, damsel ! She is gone. 

If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
Who never flashed a scimitar till now ? 
Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
In disobedience to the monarch. 

[Exit Pania, 



SCENE I.] 



SARDAiVAPALUS. 



605 



Enter Altada and Sfero by an opposite door. 

Alt. Mynha ! 

What, gone ? yet she was here when the fight 

raged, 
And Pania also. Can aught have befallen 
them ? 

S/e. I saw both safe, when late the rebels 
fled: 
They probably are but retired to made 
Their way back to the harem. 

Alt. ■ If the king 

Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doomed 
To worse than captive rebels. 

S/e. Let us trace them ; 

She cannot be fled far; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recovered kingdom. 

Alt. Baal himself 

Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it : he defies 
All augury of foes or friends ; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which 

bodes 
A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
The man's inscrutable. 

S/e. Not more than others. 

All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
Tortured for his infatuation, and 
Condemned without a crime. \_Exeunt. 

Enter SalemeNES and Soldiers, etc. 

Sal. The triumph is 

Flattering : they are beaten backward from 

the palace, 
And we have opened regular access 
To the troops stationed on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must 

be. 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
Is the chief victor ? where's the king. 

Enter SardanaPALUS, cum suis, etc. and 
Myrrha. 

Sar. Here, brother.i 

Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 

Sar. Not quite ; but let it pass. 
We've cleared the palace 

Sal. And I trust the city. 

Our numbers gather: and I've ordered on- 
ward 
A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
All fresh and fiery, to be poured upon them 
In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 

Sar. It is already, or at least they marched 
Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 



1 [The king, by his daring valor, restores the 
fortune of the fight, and returns, with all his train, 
to the palace. The scene that ensues is very mas- 
terly and characteristic. — Jeffrey.'] 



Who spared no speed. I am spent : give me 
a seat. • 

Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 

Sar. 'Tis no place to rest on, 

For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 

[ They place a scat. 
A peasant's stool, I care not what : so — now 
I breathe more freely. 

Sal. This great hour has proved 

The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

Sar. And the most tiresome. W^here's 
my cupbearer ? 
Bring me some water. 

Sal. {smiling). 'Tis the first time he 

Ever had such an order : even I, 
Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

Sar. Blood — doubtless. 

But there's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
I have learned to-night the price of the pure 

element: 
Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renewed. 
With greater strength than the grape ever gave 

me. 
My charge upon the rebels. Where's the sol- 
dier 
Who gave me water in his helmet ? 

07ie of the Guards. Slain, sire ! 

An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
To place it on his brows. 

Sar. Slain ! unrewarded ! 

And slain to serve my thirst : that's hard, poor 

slave. 
Had he but lived, I would have gorged him 

with 
Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught ; for I was 

parched 
As I am now. [ They bring water — he drinks. 
I live again — from henceforth 
The goblet I reserve for hours of love. 
But war on water. 

Sal. And that bandage, sire. 

Which girds your arm ? 

Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses. 

Myr. Oh ! he is wounded ! 

Sar. Not too much of that ; 

And yet it feels a little stiff and painful. 
Now I am cooler. 

Myr. You have bound it with 

Sar. The fillet c ; my diadem : the first time 
That ornament was ever aught to me, 
Save an incumbrance. 

Myr. {to the attendants') . Summon speed- 
ily 
A leech of the most skilful : pray, retire : 
I will unbind your wound and tend it. 

Sar. Do so, 

For now it throbs sufficiently : but what 
Know'st thou of wounds ? yet wherefore do 
I ask? 



606 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act IV. 



Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted 

on 
This minion ? 

Sal. Herding with the other females, 

Like frightened antelopes. 

Sar. No : like the dam 

Of the young lion, femininely raging, 
(And femininely meaneth furiously, 
Because all passions in excess are female,) 
Against the hunter flying with her cub, 
She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the sol- 
diers, 
In the pursuit. 

Sal. Indeed ! 

Sar. You see, this night 

Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 
Her large black eyes, that flashed through her 

long hair 
As it streamed o'er her ; her blue veins that 

rose 
Along her most transparent brow ; her nos- 
tril 
Dilated from its symmetry; her lips 
Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din. 
As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's 

clash. 
Jarred but not drowned by the loud brattling ; 

lier 
Waved arms, more dazzling with their own 

born whiteness 
Than the steel her hand held, which she 

caught up 
From a dead soldier's grasp ; — all these 

things made 
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
Of victory, or Victory herself. 
Come down to hail us hers. 

Sal. (asidd). This is too much. 

Again the love fit's on him, and all's lost. 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 

(Aloud.) But pray thee, sire, 

Think of your wound — you said even now 
'twas painful. 
Sar. That's true, too ; but I must not 

think of it. 
Sal. I have looked to all things needful, 
and will now 
Receive reports of progress made in such 
Orders as I had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

Sar. Be it so. 

Sal. {in retiring). Myrrha! 
Myr. Prince ! 

Sal. You have shown a soul to-night. 

Which, were he not my sister's lord But 

now 
I have no time : thou lovest the king? 

Myr. I love 

Sardanapalus. 
Sal, But wouldst have him king still ? 



Myr. I would not have him less than what 

he should be. 
Sal. Well then, to have him king, and 
yours, and all 
He should, or should not be; to have him 

live, 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
You have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Raging without : look well that he relapse not. 
Myr. There needed not the voice of Sale- 
menes 
To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 

All that a woman's weakness can 

Sal. Is power 

Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his : 
Exert it wisely. \_Exit Salkmenes. 

Sar. Myrrha ! what, at whispers 

With my stern brother ? I shall soon be 
jealous. 1 
Myr. {swiling). You have cause, sire ; for 
on the earth there breathes not 
A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 
A king's esteem — the whole world's admira- 
tion ! 2 
Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I 
must not 
Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
That throws me into shade; yet you speak 
truth. 
Myr. And now retire, to have your wound 
looked to. 
Pray, lean on me. 
Sar. Yes, love ! but not from pain. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Sardanapalus discovered sleep- 
ing upon a Couch, and occasionally disturbed 
in his Slumbers, with MYRRHA watching. 

Myr. {sola, gazing). I have stolen upon his 

rest, if rest it be, 
Which thus convulses slumber : shall I wake 

him ? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of 

Quiet ! 



^ [The rebels are at length repulsed. The king 
reenters wounded, and retires to rest, after a short 
and very characteristic conversation between Sale- 
menes and Myrrha, in which the two kindred spir- 
its show their mutual understanding of each other, 
and the loyal warrior, postponing ail the selfish 
domestic feelings which led him to dislike the fair 
Ionian, exhorts her to use her utmost power to 
keep her lover from relaxing into luxury. The 
transient effect which their whispers produce on 
Sardanapalus is well imagined. — Heber.'\ 

2 [MS.— r admiration 

"A king's esteem — the whole world's \ veneration 
( reverence."] 



SCENE I.] 



SARDAIVAPALUS. 



607 



Whose reign is o'er sealed eyelids and soft 

dreams, 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathomed, 
Look like thy brother, Death, — so still — so 

stirless — 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unwakeniny; twin. 
Again he moves — again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm i 
Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not yet: who knows 
From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; 

but if 
I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
Of this tumultuous might, the grief too of 
His wound, though slight, may cause all this, 

and shake 
Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
Let Nature use her own maternal means, — 
And I await to second, not disturb her.2 

Sar. {atvakenin^). Not so — although ye 

multiplied the stars, 
And gave them to me as a realm to share 
From you and with you! I would not so 

purchase 
The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye. 
Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes I 
Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier 

idols. 
If your priests lie not! And thou, ghastly 

beldame 1 
Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
The carcasses of Inde — away ! away ! 
Where am 1 ? Where the spectres ? Where 

No — that 

Is no false phantom : I- should know it 'midst 
All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living. 

Myrrha ! 
Myr. Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow 

the drops 
Gather like night dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another 

world. 
And thou art lord of this. Be of good cheer ; 
All will go well, 

Sar. Thy hand — so — 'tis thy hand ; 

'Tis flesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Myself that which I was. 



' [MS. — "Crisps the unswelling wave," etc.] 
2 [The fourth Act opens with Myrrha watching 
over the slumbers of Sardanapalus. He wakens 
and tells a horrid dream, which we do not much ad- 
mire, except that part of it which describes the form 
of his warlike ancestress Semiramis, with whom, 
and the rest of his regal predecessors, he had fan- 
cied himself at a ghostly banquet. — Heber.'\ 



Myr. At least know me 

For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 

Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall be. 

Myr. My lord ! 

Sar. I've been i' the grave — where worms 
are lords. 

And kings are But I did not deem it so ; 

I thought 'twa^ nothing. 

hfyr. So it is ; except 

Unto the timid, who anticipate 
That which may never be.^ 

Sar. Oh, Myrrha! if 

3 [The general tone of Myrrha's character (in 
perfect consistency with the manners of her age 
and nation, and with her own elevated but pure and 
feminine spirit,) is that of a devout worshipper of 
her country's gods. She reproves, with dignity, the 
impious flattery of the Assyrian courtiers and the 
libertine scoffs of the king. She does not forget, 
while preparing for death, that libation which was 
the latest and most solemn act of Grecian piety; 
and she, more particularly, expresses her belief in 
a future state of existence. Yet this very Myrrha, 
when Sardanapalus is agitated by his evil dream, 
and by the natural doubt as to what worse visions 
death may bring, is made to console him, in the 
strain of his own Epicurean philosophy, with the 
doctrine that death is really nothing, except 

" Unto the timid who anticipate 
That which may never be," 

and with the insinuation that all which remains of 
" the dead is the dust we tread upon." We do not 
wish to ask, we do not like to conjectiue, ivhose 
sentiments these are, but they are certainly not the 
sentiments of an ancient Grecian heroine. They 
are not the sentiments which Myrrha might have 
!e iraed from the heroes of her native land, or from 
the poems whence those heroes derived their hero- 
ism, their contempt of death, " and their love of 
virtue." Myrrha would rather have told her iover 
of those happy islands where the benevolent and 
the brave reposed after the toils of their mortal ex- 
istence; of that venerable society of departed war- 
riors and sages to which, if he renounced his sloth 
and lived for his people and for glory, he might yet 
expect admission. She would have told him of that 
joy with which his warlike ancestors would move 
along their meads of asphodel, when the news 
reached them of their descendant's prowess; she 
would have anticipated those songs which denied 
that " Harmodius was dead," however he might be 
removed from the sphere of mortality; which told 
her countrymen of the " roses and the golden- 
fruited bovvers, where beneath the light of a lower 
sun, departed warriors reined their shadowy cars, 
or struck their harps amid altars steaming with 
frankincense."* Such were the doctrines which 
naturally led men to a contempt for life and a 
thirst for glory: but the opposite opinions were the 
doubts of a later day, and of those sophists under 
whose influence Greece soon ceased to be free, or 
valiant, or virtuous." — Heber.^ 



* Hom. Odyss. A. 539. Callistratus ap. Athe- 
naeum, I. XV. Pindar Fragm. Heyne, vol. iii. p. 31. 



608 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act IV. 



Sleep shows such things, what may not death 

disclose ? 
Myr. I know no evil death can show, which 

life 
Has not already shown to those who live 
Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
A shore where mind survives, 'twill be as 

mind,' 
All unincorporate : or if there flits 
A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 
Which stalks, methinks, between our souls 

and heaven. 
And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 
Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 
Sar. I fear it not; but I have felt — have 

seen — 
A legion of the dead. 

2Myr. And so have I. 

The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou 

seen ? 
Speak it, 'twill Hghten thy dimmed mind, 
Sar. Methought — 

Myr. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — 

exhausted ; all 
Which can impair both strength and spirit : 

seek 
Rather to sle^p again. 

Sar. Not now — I would not 

Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
What have I dreamt: — and canst thou bear 

to hear it ? 
Myr. I can bear all things, dreams of life or 

death, 
Which I participate with you in semblance 
Or full reality. 

Sar. And this looked real, 

I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — for then they fled. 
Myr. Say on. 

Sar. I saw, that is, I dreamed myself 

Here — here — even where we are, guests as 

we were, 
Myself a host that deemed himself but guest. 
Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our customed meeting. 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark. 
And deadly face — I could not recognize it, 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where : 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet lighted; his long locks curled 

down 
On his vast bust, whence a hugh quiver rose 
With shaft-heads feathered from the eagle's 

wing.i 
That peeped up bristling through his serpent 

hair. 
I invited him to fill the cup which stood 



1 [MS.— 

'* With arrows peeping through his falling hair."] 



Between us, but he answered not — I filled it — 

He took it not, but stared upon me, till 

I trembled at the fixed glare of his eye : 

I frowned upon him as a king should frown — 

He frowned not in his turn, but looked upon me 

With the same aspect, which appalled me 

more, 
Because it changed not; and I turned for refuge 
To milder guests, and sought them on the 

right, 

Where thou wert wont to be. But 

{He pauses. 
Myr. What instead ? 

Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place in 

the banquet — 
I sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
Instead — a gray-haired, withered, bloody- 
eyed. 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing. 
Female in garb, and crowned upon the brow. 
Furrowed with years, yet sneering with the 

passion 
Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
Sate : — my veins curdled. 
Myr. Is this all ? 

Sar. Upon 

Her right hand — her lank, bird-like right 

hand — stood 
A goblet, bubbhng o'er with blood ; and on 
Her left, another, filled with — what I saw not, 
But turned from it and her. But all along 
The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
Of various aspects, but of one expression, 
Afyr. And felt you not this a mere vision ? 
Sar. No : 

It was so palpable, I could have touched 

them. 
I turned from one face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere I saw theirs : but no — all turned upon 

me, 
And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but 

stared. 
Till I grew stone, as they seemed half to be, 
Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them. 
And life in me : there was a horrid kind 
Of sympathy between us, as if they 
Had lost a part of death to come to me. 
And I the half of life to sit by them. 
We were in an existence all apart 
From heaven or earth And rather let me 

see 
Death all than such a being ! 
Myr. And the end ? 

Sar. At last I sate, marble, as they, when 

rose 
The hunter and the crone ; and smiling on 

me — 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me — I should say, 
His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the 

woman's 



SCENE 1.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



609 



Thin lips relaxed to something like a smile. 
Both rose, and the crowned figures on each 

hand 
Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death — but I sate still : 
A desperate courage crept through every 

limb, 
And at the last I feared them not, but laughed 
Full in their phantom faces. But then — then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it. 
And grasped it — but it melted from my own ; 
While he too vanished, and left nothing but 
The memory of a hero, for he looked so. 

Myr. And was : the ancestor of heroes, too, 
And thine no less. 

Sar. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman, 

The female who remained, she flew upon me, 
And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses ; 
And, flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought their poisons flowed around us, till 
Each formed a hideous river. Still she clung ; 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
Embraced me, while I shrunk from her, as if. 
In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
Then — then — a chaos of all loathsome things 
Thronged thick and shapeless : I was dead, 

yet feeling — 
Buried and raised again — consumed by 

worms. 
Purged by the flames, and withered in the air ! 
I can fix nothing further of my thoughts. 
Save that I longed for thee, and sought for 

thee. 
In all these agonies, — and woke and found 

thee. 
Myr. So shalt thou find me ever at thy 

side. 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
But think not of these things — the mere crea- 
tions 
Of late events, acting upon a frame 
Unused to toil, yet over-wrought by toil 
Such as might try the sternest. 

Sar. I am better. 

Now that I see thee once more, xvhat was seen 
Seems nothing. 

Efiter Salemenes. 

Sal. Is the king so soon awake ? 

Sar. Yes, brother, and I would I had not 
slept ; 
For all the predecessors of our line 
Rose up, methought, to drag me down to 

them. 
My father was amongst them, too ; but he, 
I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race. 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
Whom you call glorious. 

Sal. So I term you also. 



Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By day-break I propose that we set forth. 
And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite 
quelled. 

Sar. How wears the night ? 

Sal. There yet remain some hours 

Of darkness : use them for your further rest. 

Sar. No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone : me- 
thought I passed hours in that vision. 

Myr. Scarcely one ; 

I watched by you : it was a heavy hour, 
But an hour only. 

Sar. Let us then hold council ; 

To-morrow we set forth. 

Sal. But ere that time, 

I had a grace to seek, 

Sar. 'Tis granted. 

• Sal. Hear it 

Ere you reply too readily ; and 'tis 
For your ear only. 

Myr. Prince, I take my leave. 

{Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 

Sar. Freedom only ! 

That slave deserves to share a throne. 

Sal. Your patience — 

'Tis not yet vacant, and 'tis of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

Sar. How ! of the queen ? 

Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for their 
safety. 
That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her 

children 
For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
Governs ; and there at all events secure 
My nephews and your sons their lives, and 

with them 
Their just pretensions to the crown in case 

Sar. I perish — as is probable : well 
thought — 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

Sal. That 

Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates ; i but ere they 
Depart, will you not see 

Sar. My sons ? It may 

Unman my heart, and the poor boys will 

weep ; 
And what can I reply to comfort them. 
Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn 

smiles ? 
You know I cannot feign. 

Sal. But you can feel ; 



1 [We hardly know why Lord Byron, who has 
not in other respects shown a slavish deference for 
Diodorus Siculus, should thus follow him in the 
manifest geographical blunder of placing Nineveh 
on the Euphrates instead of the Tigris, in opposi- 
tion not only to the uniform tradition of the East, 
but to the express ns^crtions of Herodotus, P!iny, 
and Ptolemy. — Hedcr.] 



610 



SARDANAPAL US. 



[act IV. 



At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere you part — for ever. 

Sar. Unto what end ? what purpose ? I 
will grant 
Aught — all that she can ask — but such a 
meeting. 

Sal. You know, or ought to know, enough 
of women. 
Since you have studied them so steadily. 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
rh>-ir fancy, than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
But 'twas her wish — she is my sister — you 
Her husband — will you grant it? 

Sar. 'Twill be useless : 

But let her come. 

Sal. I go. \Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. We have lived asunder 

Too long to meet again — and now to meet ! 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow. 
To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows, 
Who have ceased to mingle love ? 

Re-enter SALEMENES and ZarinA. 

Sal. My sister ! Courage : 

Shame not our blood with trembling, but re- 
member 
From whence we sprung. The queen is pres- 
ent, sire. 
Zar, I pray thee, brother, leave me. 
Sal. Since you ask it. 

[^ji:/^ Salemenes. 
Zar. Alone with him ! How many a year 
has passed. 
Though we are still so young, since we have 

met, 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
He loved me not : yet he seems little 

changed — 
Changed to me only — would the change were 

mutual ! 
He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a 

word — 
Nor look — yet he zvas soft of voice and as- 
pect, 
Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 
.Sar. Zarina ! 

Zar. No, «(?/ Zarina — do not say Zarina. 
That tone — that word — annihilate long years. 
And things which make them longer, 

Sar. 'Tis too late 

To think of these past dreams. Let's not 

reproach — 
That is, reproach me not — for the last 

time 

Zar. hxidi first. I ne'er reproached you. 
Sar. 'Tis most true ; 

And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 

Than But our hearts are not in our 

own power. 
Zar. Nor hands : but I gave both. 



Sar. Your brother said 

It was your will to see me, ere you went 

From Nineveh with {He hesitates.) 

Zar. Our children : it is true. 

I v/ished to thank you that you have not 

divided 
My heart from all that's left it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look 

like you. 
And look upon me as you looked upon me 

Once But they have not changed. 

Sar. Nor ever will. 

I fain would have them dutiful. 

Zar. I cherish 

Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

Sar. Deem not 

I have not done you justice: I'ather make 

them 
Resemble your own line than their own sire. 
I trust them with you — to you : fit them for 
A throne, or, if that be denied You have 

heard 
Of this night's tumults ? 

Zar. I had half forgotten, 

And could have welcomed any grief save 

yours. 
Which gave me to behold your face again. 
Sar. The throne — I say it not in fear — 

but 'tis 
In peril ; they perhaps may never mount it : 
But let them not for this lose sight of it. 
I will dare all things to bequeathe it them ; 
But if I fail, then they must win it back 
Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted down my royalty. 

Zar. They ne'er 

Shall know from me of aught but what may 

honor 
Their father's memory. 

Sar. Rather let them hear 

The truth from you than from a trampling 

world. 
If they be in adversity, they'll learn 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless 

princes, 
And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
My boys ! — I could have borne it were I 

childless. 
Zar. Oh ! do not say so — do not poison 

all 
My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign. 
And honor him who saved the realm for them, 

So little cared for as his own ; and if 

Sar. 'Tis lost, all earth will cry out, thank 

your father! 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 
Zar. That they shall never do ; but rather 

honor 
The name of him, who, dying like a king, 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



611 



In his last hours did more for his own mem- 
ory 
Than many monarchs in a length of days, 
Vk'hich date the flight of time, but make no 
annals. 
Sar. Our annals draw perchance unto 
their close ; 
But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 
7.ar. Yet, be not rash — be careful of your 
life. 
Live but for those who love. 

Sar. And who are they ? 

A slave, who loves from passion — I'll not say 
Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and 

loves ; 
A few friends who have revelled till we are 
As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
A brother I have injured — children whom 

I have neglected, and a spouse 

Zar. Who loves, 

Sar. And pardons ? 

Zar. I have never thought of this. 

And cannot pardon till 1 have condemned. 
Sar. My wife ! 

Zar. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 
I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 
Sar. Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my sub- 
jects. Yes — 
These slaves whom I have nurtured, pam- 
pered, fed. 
And swoln with peace, and gorged with plen- 
ty, till 
They reign themselves — all monarchs in 

their mansions — 
Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
His death, who made their lives a jubilee ; 
While the few upon whom I have no claim 
Are faithful 1 This is true, yet monstrous. 

Zar. 'Tis 

Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
Turn poison in bad minds. 

Sar. And good ones make 

Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, 
\\' hich hives not but from wholesome flowers. 
Zar. Then reap 

The honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived. 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandoned. 
Sar. My life insures me that. How long, 
bethink you, 
Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ; 
That is, where mortals are, not where they 
must be ? 
Zar. I know not. But yet live for my — 
that is. 
Your children's sake ! 

Sar. My gentle, wronged Zarina ! i 

I am the very slave of circumstance 



' [We are not sure, whether there is not a con- 
sider.ibie violation nf costume in the sense of degra- 
dation with which Myrrha seems to regard her sit- 
uation in the harem, no less than in the resentment 



And impulse — borne away with every 

breath ! 
Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in 

life. 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should be — let it end. 
But take this with thee : if I was not formed 
To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that looked like a chain for me or others 
(This even rebellion must avouch) ; yet hear 
These words, perhaps among my last — that 

none 
E'er valued more thy virtues, though he kne\* 

not 
To profit by them — as the miner lights 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
That which avails him nothing : he hath 

found it, 
But 'tis not his — but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 
Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturnmg 
The sullen earth. 

Zar. Oh! if thou hast at length 

Discovered that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more — but let us hence together, 
And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy. 
Assyria is not all the earth — we'll find 
A world out of our own — and be more blessed 
Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I must part ye — 

The moments, which must not be lost, are 
passing. 

Zar. Inhuman brother! wilt thou thus 
weigh out 
Instants so high and blest ? 

Sal. Blest ! 

Zar. He hath been 

So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting. 

Sal. So — this feminine farewell 

Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 



of Salemenes, and the remorse of Sardanapalus on 
the score of his infidelity to Zarina. Little as we 
know of the domestic habits of Assyria, we have 
reason to conclude, from the habits of contempo- 
rary nations, and from the manners of the East in 
every age, that polygamy was neither accounted a 
crime in itself, nor as a measure of which the prin- 
cipal wife was justified in complaining. And even 
in Greece, in those times when Myrrha's character 
must have been formed — to be a captive, and sub- 
ject to the captor's pleasure, was accounted a mis- 
fortune indeed, but could hardly be regarded as an 
infamy. But where is the critic who would object 
to an inaccnrnry which has given occasion to such 
sentiments and such poetry? — Heber.\ 



612 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act IV. 



I thought as much, and yielded against all 
My better bodings. But it must not be. 

'Zar. Not be ? 

Sal. Remain, and perish 

Zar. With my husband 

Sal. And children. 

Zar. Alas ! 

Sal. Hear me, sister, like 

My sister: — all's prepared to make your 

safety 
Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes; 
'Tis not a single question of mere feeling, 
Though that were much — but 'tis a point of 

state : 
The rebels would do more to seize upon 
The offspring of their sovereign, and so 
crush 

Zar. Ah I do not name it. 

Sal. Well, then, mark me : when 

They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the 

rebels 
Have missed their chief aim — the extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Fall, his sons hve for victory and vengeance. 

Zar. But could not I remain, alone ? 

Sal. What ! leave 

Your children, with two parents and yet or- 
phans — 
In a strange land — so young, so distant ? 

Zar. No — 

My heart will break. 

Sal. Now you know all — decide. 

Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 
You save the better part of what is left. 
To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
As yet beat in these kingdoms. 

Sal. The time presses. 

Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, 
perhaps 
I may be worthier of you — and, if not. 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned 

for, 
Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
Grieve more above the blighted name and 

ashes 
Which once were mightiest in Assyria — 

than 

But I grow womanish again, and must not; 
I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 

Been of the softer order hide thy tears — 

I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
But Jet me not behold them ; they unman 

me 
Here when I had remanned myself. My 

brother, 
Lead her away. 

Zar. Oh, God! I never shall 

Behold him more! 



Sal. {striving to conduct her). Nay, sister, 
I must be obeyed. 

Zar. I must remain — away I you shall not 
hold me. 
What, shall he die alone ? — / live alone ? 

Sal. He shall not die alone ; but lonely you 
Have lived for years. 

Zar. That's false ! I knew he Hved, 

And lived upon his image — let me go ! 

Sal. {conducting her off the stage). Nay, 
then, I must use some fraternal force. 
Which you will pardon. 

Z.ar. Never. Help me ! Oh ! 

Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee ? 

Sal. Nay — then all is lost again, 

If that this moment is not gained. 

Zar. My brain turns — 

My eyes fail — where is he ? \_She faitits. 

Sar. {advancing). No — set her down — 
She's dead — and you have slain her. 

Sal. 'Tis the mere 

Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
She will recover. Pray, keep back. — \_Asidei\ 

I must 
Avail myself of this sole moment to 
Bear her to where her children are embarked, 
r the royal galley on the river. 

[Salemenes bears her off.^ 

Sar. {solus). This, too — 

And this too must I suffer — I, who neyer 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A voluntary pang I But that is false — 
She loved me, and I loved her. — Fatal pas- 
sion! 
Why dost tl: ou not expire at once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 
I must pay dearly for the desolation 
Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
But thee, 1 should have been an unopposed 
Monarch of honoring nations. To what gulfs 
A single deviation from the track 
Of human duties leads even those who claim 
The homage of mankind as their born due. 
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 

Enter MyrrHA. 



1 [This scene has been, we know not why, called 
" useless," " unnatural," and " tediously written." * 
For ourselves, we are not ashamed to own that we 
have read it with emotion. It is an interview be- 
tween Sardanapalus and his neglected wife, whom, 
with her children, he is about to send to a place of 
safety. Here, too, however, he is represented, with 
much poetical art and justice of delineation, as, in 
the midst of his deepest regrets for Zarina, chiefly 
engrossed with himself and his own sorrows, and 
inclined, immediately afterwards, to visit on poor 
Myrrha the painful feelings which his own re- 
proaches of himself have occasioned. — Heber.'\ 



* [These expressions occurred in the Edinburgh 
Review.] 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



613 



Sar. You here ! Who called you ? 

Myr. No one — but I heard 

Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
And thought 

Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 

To enter here till sought for. 

My?; Though I might, 

Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours 
(Although Xhey too were chiding),\^\iv:\i re- 
proved me. 
Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach 

you 
Uncalled for : — I retire. 

Sar. Yet stay — being here. 

I pray you pardon me : events have soured 

me 
Till I wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
Soon be myself again. 

Myr. I wait with patience, 

What I shall see with pleasure. 

Sar. Scarce a moment 

Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

Myr. Ahl' 

Sar. Wherefore do you start ? 

Myr. Did I do so ? 

Sar. 'Twas well you entered by another 
portal, 
Else you had met. That pang at least is spared 
her. 

Myr. I know to feel for her. 

Sar. That is too much 

And beyond nature — 'tis nor mutual i 
Nor possible. You cannot pity her, 
Nor she aught but 

Myr. Despise the favorite slave ? 

Not more than I have ever scorned myself. 

Sar. Scorned! what, to be the envy of 
your sex, 
And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord ? 

Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thou- 
sand worlds — 
As you are like to lose the one you swayed — 
I did abase myself as much in being 
Your paramour, as though you were a peas- 
ant — 
Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 

Sar. You talk it well 

Myr. And truly. 

Sar. In the hour 

Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
Against the falling; but as I am not 
Quite fallen, nor now disposed to bear re- 
proaches. 
Perhaps because I merit them too often. 
Let us then part while peace is still between us. 

Myr. Part 1 



1 [For vttdiial the MS. has natural; which 
certainly seems better.] 



Sar. Have not all past human beings 
parted. 
And must not all the present one day part ? 

Myr. Why ? 

Sar. For your safety, which I will have 
looked to. 
With a strong escort to your native land ; 
And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a 
kingdom. 

Myr. I pray you talk not thus. 

Sar. The queen is gone : 

You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 

Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
You shall not force me from vou. 

Sar. Think well of it — 

It soon may be too late. 

Myr. So let it be ; 

For then you cannot separate me from you. 

Sar. And will not; but I thought you 
wished it. 

Myr. I ! 

Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 

Myr. And I feel it 

Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 

Sar. Then fly from it. 

Myr. 'Twill not recall the past — 

'Twill not restore my honor, nor my heart. 
No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph ': should 
Your lot be different, I'll not weep, but share it. 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 

Sar. Your courage never — nor your love 
till now. 
And none could make me doubt it save your- 
self. 
Those words 

Myr, Were words. I pray you, let the 
proofs 
Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
This very night, and in my further bearing. 
Beside, wherever you were borne by fate. 

Sar. I am content: and, trusting in my 
cause. 
Think we may yet be victors and return 
To peace — the only victory I covet. 
To me war is no glory — conquest no 
Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right 
Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
These men would bow me down with. Never, 

never 
Can I forget this night, even should I live 
To add it to the memory of others. 
I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
On which the future would turn back and 

smile. 
And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 



614 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act v. 



And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
I took the nibble's shouts for love — the breath 
Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
My only guerdon — so they are, my Myrrha : 
\^He kisses he?-. 
Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and 

life ! 
They shall have both, but never thee ! 

Atyr. No, never! 

Man may despoil his brother man of all 
That's great or glittering — kingdoms fall^ — 

hosts yield — 
Friends fail -:- slaves fly — and all betray — 

and more 
Than all, the most indebted — but a hear^ 
That loves without self-love ! 'Tis here — now 

prove it. 

E7ifer Salem ENES. 

Sal. I sought you — How? j/if here again ? 

Sat: Return not 

No7v to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 

Sal . The only woman whom it much im- 
ports me 
At such a moment now is safe in absence — 
The queen's embarked. 

Sar. And well ? say that much. 

Sal. Yes. 

Her transient weakness has passed o'er ; at 

least. 
It settled into tearless silence : her 
Pale face and glitlering eye, after a glance 
Upon her sleeping children, were still fixed 
Upon the palace towers as the swift gallt-y 
Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the 

starlight ; 
But she said nothing. 

Sar. Would I felt no more 

Than she has said ! 

Sal. 'Tis now too late to feel ! 

Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, mar- 
shalled 
By their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks, 
Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
Been joined by other satraps. 

Sar. What ! more rebels ? 

Let us be first, then. 

Sal. That were hardly prudent 

Now, though it was our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we are joined by those 
I've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
In strength enough to venture an attack, 
Ay, and ]-)ursuit too ; but till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

Sar. I detest 

That waiting; though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 



Strewed to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm; but when I set on 

them, 
Though they were piled on mountains, I would 

have 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
Let me then charge. 

Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 

Sar. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
Of soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct me 
Where I may pour upon them. 

Sal. You must spare 

To expose your life too hastily ; 'tis not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath. 
The whole war turns upon it — with it; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — ^ 
Prolong it — end it. 

Sar. Then let us end both 1 

'Twere better thus, perhaps, than prolong 

either ; 
I'm sick of one, perchance of both. 

\A trumpet sounds without. 

Sal. Hark ! 

Sar. Let us 

Reply, not listen. 

Sal. And your wound ! 

Sar. 'Tis bound — 

'Tis healed — I had forgotten it. Away I 
A leech's lancet would have scratched me 

deeper ; i 
The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

Sal. Now, may none this hour 

Strike with a better aim ! 

Sar. Ay, if we conquer ; 

But if not, they will only leave to me 
A task they might have spared their king. 
Upon them ! \Truinpet sounds again. 

Sal. I am with you. 

Sar. Ho, my arms ! again, my arms ! 

^Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — The same Hall in the Palace. 

Myrrha afid Balea. 

Afyr. {at a window). The day at last has- 

broken. What a night 
Hath ushered it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 
Though varied with a transitory storm, 
More beautiful in that variety ! 
How hideous upon earth ! where peace and 

hope, 
And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos, 
Not yet resolved to separate elements — 

1 [MS.— 

" A leech's lancet would have done as much."] 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALVS. 



615 



'Tis warring still ! And v-an the sun so rise, 
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
\'apors more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
So like we almost deem it permanent ; 
So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently 
Scattered along the eternal vault : 1 and yet 
It dwells upon the soul and soothes the soul, 
And blends itself into the soul, until 
Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark 

not, 
Know not the realms where those twin genii 2 
(Who chasten and who purify our hearts, 
So that we would not change their sweet 

rebukes 
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
The air with clamor) build the palaces 
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
Briefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
The rest of common, heavy, human hours, 
And dream them through in placid sufferance ; 
Though seemingly employed like all the rest 
Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 3 
Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling^ 
Which our internal, restless agony 
Would v^ary in the sound, although the sense 
Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 
Bal. You muse right calmly : and can you 

so watch 
The sunrise which may be our last ? 

Myr. It is 

Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
Those eyes, which never may behold it more. 
For having looked upon it oft, too oft, 
Without the reverence and the rapture due 
To that which keeps all earth from being as 

fragile 
As I am in this form. Come, look upon it. 
The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 



^ [This description of the sun rolling back the 
vapors is apparently imitated from a magnificent 
scene in the second book of Wordsworth's Excur- 
sion. ,, p>Q^,^j them and above, 

Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, 
Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
Half-veiled in vaporing cloud, the silver steam 
Of dews fast melting on their leafv boughs 
By the strong sunbeams smitten."] 

2 [MS.— 

" Sunrise and sunset form the epoch of 
Sorrow and love ; and they who mark them nov 
Can ne'er hold converse with," etc.] 

3 [MS.— 

" Of laboring wretches in allotted tasks."] 



Dal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once 
on earth 
He swayed. 

Myr. He sways it now far more, then; 
never 
Had earthlymonarch half the power and glory ^ 
Which centres in a single ray of his, 

Bal. Surely he is a god ! 

Myr. So we Greeks deem too ; 

And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
Through all the clouds, and fills my eves with 

light 
That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 

Bal. Hark ! heard you not a sound ? 

Myr. No, 'twas mere fancy ; 

They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in the very 
Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
Since that insidious hour ; and here, within 
The very centre, girded by vast courts 
And regal halls of pyramid proportions. 
Which must be carried one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived, 
We are as much shut in even from the 

sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

Bal. But they reached 

Thus far before. 

Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 

Beat back by valor : now at once we have 
Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

Bal. May they 

Prosper ! 

Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
How vainly! 

Bal. It is said the king's demeanor 

In the late action scarcely more appalled 
The rebels than astonished his true subjects. 

Myr. 'Tis easy to astonish or appall 
The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of 

slaves ; 
But he did bravely. 

Bal. Slew he not Beleses ? 

I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 

Myr. The wretch was overthrown, but res- 
cued to 
Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquished 

him 
In fight, as he had spared him in his peril ; 
And bv that heedless pity risked a crown. 

BaL Hark! 

Myr. You are right ; some steps approach, 
but slowly. 
Enter Soldiers, bearing in Salemenes wound- 
ed, with a broken javelin itt his Side : they 

* [Misprinted hitherto — 
" Had earthly monarch half \!tit. peace and glory."] 



616 



BARDANAPALUB. 



[act v. 



seat him upon one of the Couches which fur- 
nish the Apartvient. 

Myi\ Oh, Jove ! 

Bal. Then all is over. 

Sal. That is false. 

Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 
Myr. Spare him — he's none: a mere 
court butterfly. 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 
Sal. Let him live on, then. 
Myr. _ So wilt thou, I trust. 

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and 
the event, 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear m e here ? 
Sol. By the king's order. When the jave- 
lin struck you, 
You fell and fainted : 'twas his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

Sal. 'Twas not ill done : 

For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance. 
The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 

'tis vain, 
I feel it ebbing! 

Myr, Let me see the wound ; 

I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
'Tis part of our instruction. War being con- 
stant, 
We are nerved to look on such things.i 

Sol. Best extract 

The javelin. 

Myr. Hold ! no, no, it cannot be. 

Sal. I am sped, then ! 
Myr. With the blood that fast must 

follow 
The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 
Sal. And I «c/ death. Where was the king 
when you 
Conveyed me from the spot where I was 
stricken ? 
Sol. Upon the same ground, and encour- 
aging 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and faltered back. 

Sal. Whom heard ye 

Named next to the command ? 
Sol. I did not hear. 

Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 'twas my last 
request 
That Zames take my post until the junction. 
So hoped for, yet delayed, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here: our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

Sol. But prince 

Sal. Hence, I say ! Here's a cour- 

tier and 
A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence! and do mv 
bidding. [Exeunt the Soldier's. 

^ [MS. — "We are used to such inflictions."] I 



Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the 
earth 
So soon resign thee ? 

Sal. Gentle Myrrha, 'tis 

The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this; 
As 'tis, I have not outlived them. 

^^fy^'. You wax paler. 

Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but 
prolongs 
My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful : I would draw it forth 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 

E7tter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 



My best brother ! 

And the battle 



Sar. 

Sal. 

Is lost? 

Sar. {despondingly). You see me here. 
Sal. I'd rather see you thus! 

[He draws out the weapon from the wound, 

and dies. 
Sar. And thus I will be seen ; unless the 
succor. 
The last frail reed of our beleaguered hopes. 
Arrive with Ofratanes. 

Myr. Did you not 

Receive a token from your dying brother, 
Appointing Zames chief? 
Sar. I did. 

Myr. Where's Zames ? 

Sar. Dead. 

Myr. And Altada ? 

Sar. Dying. 

Myr. Pania ? Sfero ? 
Sar. Pania yet lives : but Sfero's fled or 
captive. 
I am alone. 
Myr. And is all lost ? 

Sar. Our walls, 

Though thinly manned, may still hold out 

against 
Their present force, or aught save treachery: 

But i' the field 

Myr. I thought 'twas the intent 

Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
Till ye were strengthened by the expected 
succors. 
Sar. /over-ruled him. 
Myr. Well, the fault's a brave one. 

Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother ! I would 
give 
These realms, of which thou wert the orna- 
ment. 
The sword and shield, the sole-redeeming 
honor. 

To call back But I will not weep for thee ; 

Thou shalt be mourned for as thou wouldst 

be mourned. 
It grieves me most that thou couldst quit this ; 
life 



SCENE I.J 



SARDANAPALUS. 



617 



Believing that I could survive what thou 
Hast dif d for — our long royalty of race. 
If I redeem it, 1 will give thee blood 
Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement 
(The tears of all the good are thine already). 
If not, we meet again soon, — if the spirit 
Within us lives beyond : — thou readest mine, 
And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 
That yet warm hand, and fold that throblcss 
heart [^Embraces the body. 

To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
The body hence. 

Soldier. Where ? 

Sar. To my proper chamber. 

Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 
{Exeunt Soldiers xvith the body ^/SalemeNES. 
Enter PaNIA. 
Sar. Well, Pania! have you placed the 
guards, and issued 
The orders fixed on ? 

Pan. Sire, I have obeyed. 

Sar. And do the soldiers keep their hearts 

up ? 
Pari. Sire ? 

Sar. I'm answered! When a king asks 
twice, and has 
A question as an answer to his question, 
It is a portent. What 1 they are disheartened ? 
Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the 
shouts 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 

Have made them 

Sar. Rage — not droop — it should have 
been. 
We'll find the means to rouse them. 

Pan. Such a loss 

Might sadden even a victory. 

Sar. Alas ! 

Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, 
Though cooped within these walls, they are 

strong, and we 
Have those without will break their way 

through hosts. 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it 

was — 
A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 
Enter an Officer, hastily. 
Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 
Offi. I dare not. 

Sar. Dare not ? 

While millions dare revolt with sword in hand 1 
That's strange. I pray thee break that loyal 

silence 
Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can 

hear 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 

Pan. Proceed, thou hearest. 

Offi. The wall which skirted near the river's 
brink 



Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, which now rollmg, swoln 
From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroyed the 
bulwark. 

Pan. That's a black augury ! it has been 
said 
For ages, "That the city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew its foe." 

Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall ? 

Offi. About 

Some twenty stadii.i 

Sar. And all this is left 

Pervious to the assailants ? 

Offi. For the present 

The river's fury must impede the assault; 
But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
And may be crossed by the accustomed barks, 
The palace is their own. 

Sar. That shall be never. 

Though men, and gods, and elements, and 

omens. 
Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er pro- 
voked them. 
My father's house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

Pan. With your sanction, 

Iwill proceed to the spot, and take such meas- 
ures 
For the assurance of the vacant space 
As time and means permit. 

Sar. About it straight 

And bring me back, as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit, 
Report of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. {Exeunt Pania and the Officer. 

Myr. Thus the very waves rise up 

Against you. 

Sar. They are not my subjects, girl. 

And may be pardoned, since they can't be 
punished. 

Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you 
not. 

Sar. I am past the fear of portents : they 
can tell me 
Nothing I have not told myself since mid- 
night : 
Despair anticipates such things. 

Myr. Despair ! 

Sar. No ; not despair precisely. When 
we know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
Word than this is to give it utterance. 
But what are words to us ? we have wellnigk 

done 
With them and all things. 

Myr. Save one deed — the last 



About two miles and a half. 



618 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act v. 



And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
The only thing common to all mankind, 
So different in their births, tongues, sexes, 

natures, 
Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intel- 
lects,! 
Without one point of union save in this. 
To which we tend, for which we're born, and 

thread 
The labyrinth of mystery, called life. 

Sar. Our clew being wellnigh wound out, 
let's be cheerful. 
They who have nothing more to fear may well 
Indulge a smile at that which once appalled; 
As children at discovered bugbears. 

Reenter Pania. 
Pan. 'Tis 

As was reported : I have ordered there 
A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
Where it was strongest the required addition 
To watch the breach occasioned by the waters. 
Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, 

and as 
My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 
[ Gives a key. 
It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
Behind tlie couch in my own chamber. (Now 
Pressed by a nobler weight than e'er it bore — 
Though a long line of sovereigns have lain 

down 
Along its golden frame — as bearing for 
A time what late was Salemenes). Search 
The secret covert to which this will lead you ; 
'Tis full of treasure ; '^ take it for yourself 
And your companions : there's enough to 

load ye 
Though ye be many,3 Let the slaves be 

freed, too ; 
And all the inmates of the palace, of 
Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 
Thence launch the regal barks, once formed 

for pleasure. 
And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
The river's broad and swoln, and uncom- 

manded 



1 [MS.— 

" Complexions, climes, eras, and intellects."] 

"^ [" Athenaeus makes these treasures amount to 
a thousand myriads of talents of gold, and ten 
times as many talents of silver, which is a sum that 
exceeds all credibility. A man is lost if he attempts 
to sum up the whole value; which induces me to 
believe, that Athenaeus must have very much ex- 
aggerated; however, we may be assured, from his 
account, that the treasures were immensely great." 
— Rollin.^ 

3 [MS. " Ye will find the crevice 

To which the key fits, with a little care."] 



(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
Fly ! and be happy 1 

Pan. Under your protection I 

So you accompany your faitMul guard. 

Sar. No, Pania! that rnust not be; get 
thee hence, 
And leave me to my fate. 

Pan. 'Tis the first time 
I ever disobeyed: but now 

Sar. So all men 

Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
Apes Treason from without. Question no 

further ; 
'Tis my command, my last command. Wilt 

thou 
Oppose it ? thou! 

Pan. But yet — not yet. 

Sar. Well, then, 

Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
The signal. 

Pan. With a heavy but true heart, 

I promise. 

Sar. 'Tis enough. Now order here 

Fagots, pine-nuts, and withered leaves, and 

such 4 
Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole 

spark ; 
Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and 

spices. 
And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile ; 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre ; 
And heap them round yon throne. 

Pan. My lord ! 

Sar. I have said it, 

And you have sworn. 

Pan. And could keep my faith 

Without a vow. {^Exit Pania. 

Myr. What mean you ? 

Sar. You shall know 

Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forg*;t. 

Pania, returning with a Herald. 

Pan. My king, in going forth upon my duf^', 
This herald has been brought before m( 

craving , 

An audience. 

Sar. Let him speak. 

Her. The King Arbaces — ■ 

Sar What, crowned already ? — But, pro 
ceed. 

Her. Beleses, 
The anointed high-priest 

Sar. Of what god or demon ? 

With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 
You are sent to prate your master's will, and 

not 
Reply to mine. 

Her. And Satrap Ofratanes 



[MS. " Now order here 

Enough of dry wood," etc.] 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



619 



Sar. Wli}', he is ours, 

her. {showing a ring). Be sure that he 
•is now 
In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
His signet ring. 

Sar. 'lis his. A worthy triad ! 

Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
To see one treachery the less : this man 
Was thy true friend and my most trusted sub- 
ject. 
Proceed. 

Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
Of choice to single out a residence 
In any of the further provinces, 
Guarded and watched, but not confined in 

person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but 

on 
Condition that the three young princes are 
Given up as hostages. 

Sar. {irojiically). The generous victors ! 

Her. I wait the answer. 

Sar. Answer, slave ! How long 

Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 

Her. Since they were free. 

Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 

Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania! 
Let his head be thrown from our walls within 
The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
Away with him ! 

[Pania and the Guards seizing him. 

Pan. I never yet obeyed 

Your orders with more pleasure than the pres- 
ent. 
Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty with. treasonable gore ; 
Put him to rest without. 

Her. A single word ; 

My office, king, is sacred. 

Sar. And what's mine f 

That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down ? 

Her. I but obeyed my orders. 

At the same peril if refused, as now 
Incurred by my obedience. 

Sar. So there are 

New inonarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and 

enthroned 
From birth to manhood! 

Her. My life waits your breath. 

Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — 

yours 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent : 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peaceful herald, unarmed, in his office; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man — but 

that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 



Sar. He's right. — Let him go free. — My 
life's last act 
Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 
[Gives him a golden cup from a table near. 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
And think oime; or melt it into ingots. 
And think of nothing but their weight and 
value. 

Her. I thank you doubly for my life, and 
this 
Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more 

precious. 
But must I bear no answer ? 

Sar. Yes, — I ask 

An hour's truce to consider. 

Her. But an hour's ? 

Sar. An hour's : if at the expiiation of 
That time your masters hear no further from 

me, 
They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
And act befittingly. 

Her. I shall not fail 

To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 

Sar. And hark I a word more. 

Her. I shall not forget it, 

Whate'er it be. 

Sar. Commend me to Beleses; 

And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 

Her. Where ? 

Sar. At Babylon. 

At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

Her. I shall obey you to the letter. 

lExit Herald. 

Sar. Pania ! — 

Now, my good Pania ! — quick — with what I 
ordered. 

Pan. My lord, — the soldiers are already 
charged. 
And see ! they enter. 

\_Soldiers enter, and form a Pile about the 
Throne, etc. 

Sar. Higher, my good soldiers, 

And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quenched 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell 

it. 
Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
Leave that, save fraught with fire unquench- 
able. 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'Twere to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect! 
How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
For a king's obsequies ? 

Pan. Ay, for a kingdom's. 

I understand you, now. 

Sar. And blame me ? 

Pan. No — 

Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 

Myr, That duty's mine. 



620 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act v. 



Pan. A woman's ! 

Myvt 'Tis the soldier's 

Part to 6X& for his sovereign, and why not 
The woman's with her lover ?, 

Pan. 'Tis most strange ! 

Myr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou 
think'st it. 
In the mean time, live thou. — Farewell 1 the 

pile 
Is ready. 

Fatt. I should shame to leave my sovereign 
With but a single female to partake 
His death. 

Sar. Too many far have heralded 

Me to the dust, already. Get thee hence ; 
Enrich thee. 

Pa?i. And live wretched ! 

Sar. Think upon 

Thy vow : — 'tis sacred and irrevocable. 

Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 

Sar. Search well my chamber. 

Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
Remember what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew me : and when you have borne away 
All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
Say, what you saw at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

Pan. That royal hand ! 

Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
And these poor soldiers who throng round 

you, and 
Would fain die with you ! 

\Tfie soldiers and PaNIA throng round him, 
kissing his hand and the hem of his robe. 

Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 

Let's not unman each other : part at once : 
All farewells should be sudden, when for ever. 
Else they make an eternity of moments. 
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
Now to be pitied ; or far more for what 
Is past than present; — for the future, 'tis 
In the hands of the deities, if such 
There be: I shall know soon. Farewell — 
Farewell. \Exeunt Pania and Soldiers. 

Myr. These men were honest : it is com- 
fort still 
That our last looks should be on loving faces. 

Sar. And lovely ones, my beautiful 1 — but 
hear me ! 
If at this moment, — for we now are on 
The brink, — thou feel'st an inward shrinking 
from 



This leap through flame into the future, say it : 1 
I shall not love thee less ; nay, perhaps more, ' 
For yielding to thy nature : and there's thne 
Yet for thee to escape hence. 

Myr. Shall I light 

One of the torches which lie heaped beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns without. 
Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall ? 

Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 

Myr. Thou shalt see. 

\Exit Myrrha. 

Sar. {solus). She's firm. My fathers! 
whom I will rejoin. 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains of too material being, 
I would not leave your ancient first abode 
To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
If I have not kept your inheritance 
As ye bequeathed it, this bright part of it, 
Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils, 
In which they would have revelled, I bear with 

me 
To you in that absorbing element. 
Which most personifies the soul as leaving 
The least of matter unconsumed before 
Its fiery workings: — and the light of this 
Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
Not a mere pillar formed of cloud and flame, 
A beacon in the horizon for a day. 
And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
To lesson ages, rebel nations, and 
Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full 

many 
A people's records, and a hero's acts; 
Sweep empire after empire, like this first 
Of empires, into nothing; tjut even then 
Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
A problem few dare imitate, and none 
Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 
Which led to such a consummation. 

Myrrha retur?is with a lighted Torch in ant 
Hand, and a Cup in the other. 

Myr. Lo ! 

I've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 

Sar. And the cup ? 

Myr. 'Tis my country's custom to 

Make a libation to the gods. 

Sar. And mine 

To make libations amongst men. I've not 
Forgot the custom ; and although alone. 
Will drain one draught in memory of many 
A joyous banquet past. 

[SARDANAPALUS takes the cup, and after 
drinking and tinkling the reversed cup, as 
a drop falls, exclaims — 

And this libation 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

Myr. Why 

Dwells thy mind rather upon that man's name 
That on his mate's in vi.llany ? 



SCENE 1.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



621 



Sar. The one 

Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
Of human sword in a friend's hand ; tiie other 
Is master-mover of his warlike puppet : 
But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet 

pause, 
My Myrrha! dost thou truly follow me, 
Freely and fearlessly ? 

Myr. And dost thou think 

A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom ? i 

Sar. Then 

We but await the signal. 

Myr. It is long 

In sounding. 
Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 

Myr. Embrace, but 7iot the last ; there is 

one more. 
Sar. True, the commingling fire will mix 

our ashes. 
Myr. And pure as is my love to thee, shall 
they. 
Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly 

passion. 
Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet 
irks me. 
Sar. Say it. 

Myr. It is that no kind hand will 

gather 
The dust of both into one urn. 

Sar. The better : 

Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
The winds of heaven, and scattered into air, 
Than be polluted more by human hands 
Of slaves and traitors. In this blazing palace. 
And its enormous walls of reeking ruin. 
We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
Hath piled in her brick mountains, o'er dead 

kings, ■■^ 
Or kine, for none know whether those proud 

piles 
Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis : 



1 [MS. " And what is there 

An Indian widow dares for custom, which 
A Greek girl dare not do for love? "j 

2 [These lines are in bad taste enough, from 
jingle between kbigs and kine , down to the absurd- 
ity of believing that Sardanapalus at such a mo- 
ment would be likely to discuss a point of antiqua- 
rian curiosity. But they involve also an anachro- 
nism, inasmuch as, whatever date be assigned to 
the erection of the earlier pyramids, there can be 
no reason for apprehending that, at the fall of 
Nineveh, and while the kingdom and hierarchy of 
Egypt subsisted in their full splendor, the destina- 
tion of those immense fabrics could have been a 
matter of doubt to any who might inquire concern- 
ing them, flerodotus, three hundred years later, 
may have been misinformed of these points; but, 
when Sardanapalus lived, the erection of pyramids 
must, in all probability, have not been still of un- 
frequent occurrence, and the nature of their con- 
tents no subject of mistake or mystery. — Heber.'\ 



So much for monuments that have forgotten 
Their very record ! 

Myr. Then farewell, thou earth ! 

And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia! 
Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof from desolation I My last prayer 
Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, 
were of thee ! 

Sar. And that? 

Myr. Is yours. 

[ The trumpet <?/ Pania sounds without, 

Sar. Hark ! 

Myr. Now! 

Sar. Adieu, Assyria! 

I loved thee well, my own, my furthers' land, 
And better as my country than my kingdom. 
I sated thee with peace and joys ; and this 
Is my reward ! and now I owe' thee nothing. 
Not even a grave. [//<? motmts the pile. 

Now, Myrrha! 

Myr. Art thou ready ? 

Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 

[Myrrh A/z-^j the pile. 

Myr. 'Tis fired 1 I come. 

\_As Myrrha springs forward to throw 
herself into the flames, the Curtain falls? 



^ [In " Sardanapalus" Lord Byron has been far 
more fortunate than in the " Doge of Venice," inas- 
much as his subject is one eminently adapted not 
only to tragedy in general, but to that peculiar kind 
of tragedy which Lord Byron is anxious to recom- 
mend. The history of the last of the Assyrian kings 
is at once sufficiently well known to awaken that 
previous interest which belongs to illustrious names 
and early associations; and sufficiently remote and 
obscure to admit of any modification of incident or 
character which a poet may find convenient. All 
that we know of Nineveh and its sovereigns is 
majestic, indistinct, and mysterious. We read of 
an extensive and civilized monarchy erected in the 
ages immediately succeeding the deluge, and exist- 
ing in full might and majesty while the shores of 
Greece and Italy were unoccupied, except by roving 
savages. We read of an empire whose influence 
extended from Samarcand to Troy, and from the 
mountains of Judah to those of Caucasus, subverted, 
after a continuance of thirteen hundred years, and a 
dynasty of thirty generations, in an almost incredi- 
bly short space of time, less by the revolt of two 
provinces than by the anger of Heaven and the pre- 
dicted fury of natural and inanimate agents. And 
the influence which both the conquests and the mis- 
fortunes of Assyria appear to have exerted over the 
fates of the people for whom, of all others in ancient 
history, our strongest feelings are (from leligious 
motives) interested, throws a sort of sacred pomp 
over the greatness and the crimes of the descend- 
ants of Nimrod, and a reverence which no other 
equally remote portion of profane history is likely 
to obtain with us. At the same time, all which we 
know is so brief, so general, and so disjointed, that 
we have few of those preconceived notions of the 
persons and facts represented which in classical 
drnmas, if servilely followed, destroy the interest, 
and if rashly departed from offend the prejudices, of 
the reader or the auditor- An outline i$ given of 



622 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



the most majestic kind; but it is an outline only, 
which the pi)et may till up at pleasure; and in 
ascribing, as Lord Byron has done for the sake of 
his favorite unities, tlie destruction of the Assyrian 
empire to the treason of one night, instead of the 
war of several years, lie has neither shocked our 
better knowledge, nor incurred any conspicuous 
improbability. . . . Still, however, the development 
of Sardanapalus's character is incidental only to 
the plot of Lord Byron's drama, and though the 
unities have confined his picture within far nar- 
rower limits than he might otherwise have thought 
advisable, the character is admirably sketched; nor 
is there any one of tlie jiortraits of this great master 
which gives us a more favorable opinion of his 
talents, his force of conception, his delicacy and 
vigor of touch, or the richness and harmony of his 
coloring. He had, indeed, no unfavorable ground- 
work, even in a few hints supplied by the ancient 
historians, as to the conduct and history of the last 
and most unfortunate of the line of Belus. Though 
accused (whether truly or falsely), by his trium- 
phant enemies, of the most revolting vices, and an 
effeminacy even beyond what might be expected 
from the last dregs of Asiatic despotism, we find 
Sardanapahis, when roused by the approach of 
danger, conducting his armies with a courage, a 
skill, and, for some time at least, with a success not 
inferior to those of his most warlike ancestors. We 
find him retaining to the last the fidelity of his most 



trusted servants, his nearest kindred, and no tmall 
proportion of his hardiest subjects. We see him 
providing for the safely of his wife, his children, 
and his capital city, with all the calmness and pru- 
dence of an experienced captain. We see him at 
length subdued, not by man, but by Heaven and 
the elements, and seeking his death with a mixture 
of heroism and ferocity which little accords with 
our notions of a weak or utterly degraded charac- 
ter. And even the strange story, variously told, 
and without further explanation scarcely intelli- 
gible, which represents him as building (or fortify- 
ing) two cities in a single day, and then deforming 
his exploits with an indecent image and inscription, 
would seem to imply a mixture of energy with his 
folly not impossible, perhaps, to the madness of 
absolute power, and which may lead us to impute 
his fall less to weakness than to an injudicious and 
ostentatious contempt of the opinions and preju- 
dices of mankind. Such a character, — luxuri- 
ous, energetic, misanthropical, — affords, beyond a 
doubt, no common advantages to the work of poetic 
delineation; and it Is precisely the character which 
Lord Byron most delights to draw, and which he 
has succeeded best in drawing. — Heher. 

I remember Lord Byron's mentioning, that the 
story of Sardanapahis had been working in his 
brain for seven years before he commenced it. — 
Trelawney.\ 



THE TWO FOSCARI : AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY.i 



'Y\i^ father softens, but \.\i& governor's resolved. — Critic. 



["The Two Foscari " was composed at Ravenna, between the nth of June and the loth of July, 
1821, and published with " Sardanapalus " in the following December. "The Venetian story," Byron 
v/rote to Mr. Murray, " is strictly historical. I am much mortified that Gifford don't take to my new 
dramas. To be sure, they are as opposite to the English drama as one thing can be to another; but I 
have a notion that. If understood, they will, in time, find favor (though not on the stage) with the 
reader. The simplicity of plot Is intentional, and the avoidance of rajit also, as also the compression of 
the speeches In the more severe situations. What I seek to show In ' the Foscaris ' is the suppressed 
passions, rather than the rant of the present day. For that matter — 

' Nay, if thou'lt mouth, 
ril rant as well as thou — ' 

would not be difficult, as I think I have shown in my younger productions — not dramatic ones, to be 
sure." The best English account of the incidents on which this play is founded, is in Smedley's 
"Sketches of Venetian History:" — 

" The reign of Francesco Foscari had now been prolonged to the unusual period of thirty-four years, 
and these years were marked by almost continual warfare; during which, however, the courage, the firm- 
ness, and the sagacity of the Illustrious Doge had won four rich provinces for his country, and increased 
her glory nnt less than her dominion. Ardent, enterprising, and ambitious of the glory of conquest, it 
was not without much opposition that Foscari had obtained the Dogeship; and he soon discovered that 



[MS, — " Begun June the 12th, completed July the 9th, Ravenna, 1821. — Byron,'\ 



THE TWO FOSCARl. 623 



the throne which he had coveted with so great earnestness was far from being a seat of repose. Accord- 
ingly, at the peace of Ferrara, which in 1433 succeeded a caUmitoiis w^r, ior'..^ceing tiic approa li of 
fresh and still greater troubles, and wearied by the faclions which ascribed al! disasters to the Prince, lie 
tendered his abdication to the senate, and was refused. A like offer was renewed by him when nii.e 
years' further experience of sovereignty had confirmed his former estimate q^ its cares; and the Coon' 'i, 
on tliis second occasion, much more fnjm adherence to existing institutions than from any ailacl.ment to 
the person of the Doge, accompanied their negative with the exaction of an oath that he would ret.iin 
his burdensome dignity for life. Too early, alas! was he to be taught that life, on such conditions, \\a.- 
the heaviest of curses! Three out of his four sons were already dead: to Oiacopo, the survive r, 'c 
looked for the continuation of his name and the support of his declining age; and, from that ycuth's 
intermarriage with the illustrious house of Contarini, ard the popular joy with which his nuptials wcie 
celebrated, tiie Doge drew favorable auspices for future happiness. Four years, however, had scarcely 
elapsed from the conclusion of that well-omened marriage, when a series of calamities began, from whith 
death alone was to relieve either the son or his yet more wretched father. In 1445, Gir opo Fosrari was 
denounced to the Ten, as having received presents from foreign potentates, and especi«lly from Filippo- 
Maria Visconti. The offence, according to the law, was one of the most heinous which a noble cc uld 
commit. Even if Giacopo were guiltless of infringing that law, it was not easy to establish innocence 
before a Venetian tribunal. Under the eyes of his own father, compelled to preside at the unnatuird 
examination, a confession was extorted from the prisoner, on the rack; and, from the lips of that father, 
he received the sentence which banished him for lift to Napoli di Romania. On his passage, severe ill- 
ness delayed him at Trieste; and, at the special prayer of the Doge, a less remote district was assigned 
for his punishment; he was permitted to reside at Treviso, and his wife was allowed to participate his 
exile. 

It was in the commencement of the winter of 1450, while Giacopo Foscari rested, in comparative tran- 
quillity, within the bounds to which he was restricted, that an assassination occurred in the streets of 
Venice. Hermolao Donato, the Chief of the Ten, was murdered on his return from a sitting of that 
council, at his own door, by unknown hands. The magnitude of the offence and the violation of the 
high dignity of the Ten demanded a victim ; and the coadjutors of the slain magistrate caught with 
eager grasp at the slightest clue which suspicion could afford. A domestic in the service of Giacopo 
Foscari had been seen in Venice on the evening of the murder, and on the following rrorning, when met 
in a boat off Mestre by a Chief of the Ten, and asked, ' What news.'' ' he had answered by reporting the 
assassination, several hours before it was generally known. It might seem that such frankness of 
itself disproved all participation in the crime; for the author of it was not likely thus unseasonably and 
prematurely to disclose its committal. But the Ten thought differently, and matters which to olhers bore 
conviction of innocence, to them savored strongly of guilt. The servant was arrested, exan.ined. and 
barbarously tortured; but even the eightieth application of the strappado failed to elicit one syllable 
which might justify condemnation. That Giacopo Foscari had experienced the severity of the Council's 
judgment, and that its jealous watchfulness was daily imposing some new restraint upon hi-, father's 
authority, powerfully operated to convince the Ten that they must themselves in return be obje.ts of his 
deadly enmity. Who else, they said, could be more likely to arm the hand of an assassin agian^t a 
Chief of the Ten, than one whom the Ten have visited with punishment? On this unjust and iiuMip- 
ported surmise, the young Foscari was recalled from Treviso, placed on the rack which his servant had 
just vacated, tortured again in his father's presence, and not absolved even after he resolutely persisted 
in denial unto the end. 

The wrongs, however, whic4i Giacopo Foscari endured had by no means chilled the passionate Jove 
with which he continued to regard his ungrateful country. He was now excluded from all comninnica- 
tion with his family, torn from the wife of his affections, debarred from the society of his children, hopeless 
of again embracing those parents who had already far outstripped the natural term of human existence; 
and to his imagination, for ever centering itself on the single desire of return, life presented no other 
object deserving pursuit; till, for the attainment of this wish, life itself at length appeared to be scarcely 
more than an adequate sacrifice. Preyed upon by this fever of the heart, after six years' luiavai.ing suit 
for a remission of punishment, in the summer of 1456, he addressed a letter to the Duke of M ilnn, implor- 
ing his good offices with the senate. That letter, purposely left open in a place obvious to the hpits by 
whom, even in his exile, he was surrounded, and afterwards entrusted to an equally treacherous hand for 
delivery to Sforza, was conveyed, as the writer intended, to the Council of Ten; and the result, which 
equally fulfilled his expectation, was a hasty summons to Venice to answer for the heavy crime of 
soliciting foreign intercession with his native government. 

For a third time, Francesco Foscari listened to the accusation of his son; for the first time he heard 
him openly avow the charge of his accusers, and calmly state that his offence, such as it was, had been 
committed designedly and aforethought, with the sole object of detection, in order that he nnght be 
brought bp.ck, even as a malefactor, to Venice. This promj)t and voluntary declaration, however, was 
not sufficient to decide the nice hesitation of his judges. Guilt, they said, might be loo easily adn;itted 
as well as too pertinaciously denied; and the same process therefore by which, at other times, confession 
was wrested from the hardened criminal might now compel a too facile self-accuser to retract his ac- 
knowledgment. The father again looked on while his son was raised on the accursed cord no less than 
thirty times, in order that, under his agony he might be induced to utter a lying declaration of innocence. 
But this cruelty was exercised in vain; and, when nature gave way, the sufferer was carried to the 
apartments of the Doge, torn, bleeding, senseless, and dislocated, but firm in his original purpose. Nor 
had his persecutors relaxed in theirs; thev renewed his sentence of exile, and added that its first year 
should be passed in orison. Before he embarked, '>ne interview was permitted with his family. The 
Doge, as Sanuto, perhaps unconscious of the pathos ol his simplicity, has narrated, was an aged and 



624 THE TWO FOSCARL 



decrepit man, who walked with the support of a crutch, and when he came into the chamber, he spake 
with great firmness, so that it might seem it was not his son whom he was addressmg, but it was his 
son — his only ^on. ' Go, Giucopo,* was his reply, when prayed for the last time to solicit mercy ; ' Go, 
Giacopo, submit to the will of your country, and seek nothing further.' This effort of self-restraint was 
beyond the powers, not of the old man's enduring spirit, but of his exhausted frame; and when he retired, 
lie swooned in the arms of his attendants. Giacopo reached his Candian prison, and was shortly after- 
wards released by death. 

Francesco Foscari, far less happy in his survival, continued to live on, but it was in sorrow and feeble- 
ness which prevented attention to the duties of his higli office: he remained secluded in his chamber, 
never went abroad, and absented himself even from the sittings of the councils. No practical incon- 
venience could result from this want of activity in the chief magistrate; for the constitution sufficiently 
provided against any accidental suspension of his personal functions, and his place in council, and on 
state occasions, was supplied by an authorized deputy. Some indulgence, moreover, might be thought 
due to the extreme age and domestic griefs of Foscari ; since they appeared to promise that any favor 
which might be granted would be claimed but for a short period. But yet further trials were in store. 
Giacopo Loredano, who in 1467 was appointed one of the Chiefs of the Ten, belonged to a family between 
which and that of Foscari an hereditary feud had long existed. His uncle Pietro, after gaining high dis- 
tinction in active service, as Admiral of Venice, on his return to the capital, headed the political faction 
which opposed the warlike projects of the Doge; divided applause with him by his eloquence in the 
councils; and so far extended his influence as frequently to obtain majorities in their divisions. In an 
evil moment of impatience, Foscari Once publicly avowed in the senate, that so long as Pietro Loredano 
lived he should never feel himself really to be Doge'. Not long afterwards, the Admiral engaged as 
Provveditore with one of the armies opposed to Filippo-Maria, died suddenly at a military banquet given 
during a short suspension of arms; and the evil-omened words of Foscari were connected with his decease. 
It was remarked, also, that his orother Marco Loredano, one of the Avvogadori, died in a somewhat 
similar manner, while engaged in instituting a legal process against a son-in-law of the Doge, for pecula- 
tion upon the state. The foul rumors partially excited by these untoward coincidences, for they appear 
in truth to have been no more, met with little acceptation, and were rejected or forgotten except by a 
single bosom. Giacopo, the son of one, the nephew of the other deceased Loredano, gave full credit to 
the accusation, inscribed on his father's tomb at Sta. Elena, that he died by poison, bound himself by a 
solemn vow to the most deadly and unrelenting pursuit of revenge, and fulfilled that vow to the uttermost. 

During the lifetime of Pietro Loredano, Foscari, willing to terminate the feud by a domestic alliance, 
had tendered the hand of his daughter to one of his rival's sons. The youth saw his proffered bride, 
openly expressed dislike of her person, and rejected her with marked discourtesy; so that, in the quarrel 
thus heightened, Foscari might now conceive himself to be the most injured party. Not such was the 
impression of Giacopo Loredano: year after year he grimly awaited the season most fitted for his un- 
bending purpose; and it arrived at length when he found himself in authority among the Ten. Relying 
upon the ascendency belonging to that high station, he hazarded a proposal for the deposition of the 
aged Doge, which was at first, however, received with coldness; for those who had twice before refused 
a vt)Iuntary abdication, shrank from the strange contradiction of now demanding one on compulsion. 
A junta was required to assist in their deliberations, and among the assessors elected by the Great Coun- 
cil, in complete ignorance of the purpose fur which they were needed, was Marco Foscari, a Procuratore 
of St. Mark, and brother of the Doge himself. The Ten perceived that to reject his assistance might 
excite suspicion, while to procure iiis apparent approbation would give a show of impartiality to their 
process- his nomination, therefore, was accepted, but he was removed to a separate apartment, excluded 
from the debate, sworn to keep that exclusion secret, and yet compelled to assent to the final decree in 
the discussion of which he had not been allowed to participate. The council sat during eight days and 
nearly as many nights; and, at the close of their protracted meetings, a committee was deputed to request 
the abdication of the Doge. The old man received them with surprise, but with composure, and replied 
that he had sworn not to abdicate, and therefore must maintain his faith. It was not possible that he 
could resign; but if it appeared fit to their wisdom that he should cease to be Doge, they had it in their 
power to make a proposal to that effect to the Great Council. It was far, however, from the intention of 
the Ten to subject themselves to the chances of debate in that larger body, and, assuming to t'neir own 
magistracy a prerogative not attributed to it by the constitution, they discharged Foscari from his oath, 
declared his office vacant, assigned to him a pension of two thousand ducats, and enjoined him to quit the 
palace within three days, on pain of confiscation of all his property. Loredano, to whom the right be- 
longed, according to the weekly routine of office, enjoyed the barbarous satisfaction of presenting this dectee 
with his own hand. ' Who are you, Signor ?' inquired the Doge of another Chief of the Ten who accom(>ai ied 
him, and whose person he did not immediately recognize. ' I am a son of Marco Memmo.' ' Ah, your 
father,' replied Foscari, ' is my friend.' Then declaring that he yielded willing obedience to the most excel- 
lent Council of Ten, and laying aside the ducal bonnet and robes, he surrendered his ring of office, which was 
broken in his presence. On the morrow, when he prepared to leave the palace, it was suggested to him 
tiiat he should retire by a private staircase, and thus avoid the concourse assembled in the court-yard be- 
low. With calm dignity he refused the proposition: he would descend, he said, by no other than the 
self-same steps by which he had mounted thirty years before. Accordingly, supported by his brother, he 
slowly traversed the Giant's Stairs, and, at their foot, leaning on his staff and turning round to the p:dace 
he accompanied his last look to it with tliese parting words, ' My services established me within your 
walls; it is the malice of my enemies which tears me from them! ' 

It was to the Oligarchy alone that Foscari was obnoxious; by the populace he had always been be- 
lovel, and strange indeed would it have been had he now failed to excite their sympathy. Rut even 
the regrets of the people of Venice were fettered by their tyrants; and whatever pity they might secretly 



THE TPi^O POBCARt. 



625 



continue to cherisli for their wronged and humiliated prince, all expression of it was silenced by a per- 
emptory decree of the Council, forbidding any mention of his name, and annexing death as a penalty to 
disobedience. On the fifth day after Foscari's deposition, Pascale Malipieri was elected Doge. The de- 
throned prince heard the announcement of his successor by the bell of the campanile, suppressed his 
agitation, but ruptured a blood vessel in the exertion, and died in a few hours."] 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 

Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, « Chief of the Forty. 
Barbarigo. a Senator. 



Other Senators, The Council of Ten, Guards, 
Attendants, etc. etc. 

WOMAN. 

Marina, Wife of young Foscari. 



Scene — the Ducal Palace, Ve.lice. 



ACT I. 

Scene \. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter LoREDANOi and BARBARIGO, 
meeting. 

Lor. Where is the prisoner ? 

Bar. Reposing from 

The Question. 

Lor. The hour's past — fixed yesterday 

For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
Urge his recall. 

Bar. Nay, let him profit by 

A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs ; 
He was o'erwrought by the Question yesterday. 
And may die under it if now repeated. 

Lor. Well ? 

Bar. I yield not to you in love of justice. 
Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
But the poor wretch has suffered beyond 

nature's 
Most stoical endurance. 

Lor. Without owning 

His crime ? 



' [The character of Loredano is well conceived 
and truly tragic. The deep and settled principle of 
hatred which animates him, and which impels him 
to the commission of the most atrocious cruelties, 
may seem, at first, unnatural and overstrained. 
But not only is it historically true; but, when the 
cause of that hatred (the supposed murder of his 
father and uncles), and when the rtti.Kious maxims 
of Italian revenge, and that habitual contempt of 
all the milder feelings are taken into consideration 
which constituted the gIo>y of a Venetian patriot, 
we may conceive how such a principle might be not 
only avowed, but exulted in by a Venetian who re- 
garded the house of Foscari as, at once, the ene- 
mies of his family and his country. — Heber.^ 



Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 

But he avowed the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 

Lor. We shall see. 

Bar. You, Loredano, 

Pursue hereditary hate too far. 

Lor. How far ? 

Bar. To extermination. 

Lor. When they are 

Extinct, you may say this, — Let's into council. 

Bar. Yet pause — the number of our col- 
leagues is not 
Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 

Lor. And the chief judge, the Doge ? 

Bar. No — he. 

With more than Roman fortitude, is ever 
First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. 



Lor. 
His last. 

Bar. 

Lor. 

Bar. 

Lor. 

Bar. 
To the 



True — true- 



Will nothing move you ? 

Feels he, think you ? 
He shows it not. 

I have marked that — the wretch ! 
But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
ducal chambers, as he passed the 
threshold. 
The old man fainted. 

Lor. It begins to work, then. 

Bar. The work is half your own. 
Lor. And should be all mine — 

My father and my uncle are no more. 
Bar. I have read their epitaph, which says 
they died 
By poison.2 



2 [" Veneno snblatus. 
church of Santa Elena.] 



The tomb is in tlie 



626 



THE TWO pose ART. 



[act 1, 



Lor. When the Doge declared that he 

Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sickened shortly : — he is sover- 
eign. 

Bar. A wretched one. 

Lor. What should they be who make 

Orphans ? 

Bar. But did the Doge make you so ? 

Lor. Yes. 

Bar. What solid proofs ? 

Lor. When princes set themselves 

To work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
Of the first, as shall make the second need- 
less. 

Bar. But you will move by law ? 

Lor. By all the laws 

Which he would leave us. 

Bar. They are such in this 

Our state as render retribution easier 
Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
That you have written in your books of com- 
merce, 
(The wealthy practice of our highest nobles) 
" Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of Marco aud Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle ? " 

Lor. It is written thus. 

Bar. And will you leave it unerased ? 

Lor. Till balanced. 

Bar. And how ? 

\Two Senators pass over the stage, as in 
their way to " the Hall of the Council of 
Ten." 

Lor. You see the number is complete. 

Follow me. [Exit LOREDANO. 

Bar. {solus). YoWovf thee/ I have followed 
long 1 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and 

wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
The waters through them ; but this son and 

sire 
Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
Must I on hardily like them— -Oh! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
Lo, where he comes! — Be still, my heart! 
they are 



3 [Loredano is accompanied, upon all emergen- 
cies, by a senator called Barbarigo — a sort of con- 
fidant or chorus — who comes lor no end that we 
can discover, but to twit him with conscientious 
cavils and objections, and then to second him by 
his personal countenance and authority. Jeffrey. — 
Loredano is the only personage above mediocrity. 
The remaining characters are all unnatural, or fee- 
ble. Barbarigo is as tame and insignificant a con- 
fidant, as ever swept after the train of his principal 
over the Parisian stage. — Heber.'\ 



Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou beat 
For those who almost broke thee ? 

Enter Guards, with young FOSCARI as pris- 
oner, etc. 

Guard. Let him rest. 

Signor, take time. 

yac. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I'm feeble; 
But thou may'st stand reproved. 

Guard. I'll stand the hazard. 

Jac. Fos. That's kind : — I meet some pity, 
but no mercy ; 
This is the first. 

Guard. And might be last, did they 

Who rule behold us. 

Bar. {advancing to the Guard). There is 
one who does : 
Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser; though the hour is past, 
Wait their last summons — I am of "the 

Ten," 
And waiting for that summons, sanction you 
Even by my presence: when the last call 

sounds, 
We'll in together. — Look well to the prisoner ! 

Jac. Fos. What voice is that ? — 'Tis Bar- 
barigo's ! Ah ! 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there 
be. 
Thy father sits amongst thy judges. 

yac. Fos. True, 

He judges. 

Bar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 
As the state's safety 

yac. Fos. And his son's. I'm faint; 

Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 



Enter an 



icer, who whispers BARBARIGO. 



Bar. {to the Guard). Let him approach. 
I must not speak with him 
Further than thus : I have transgressed my 

duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. 

S^Exit Barbarigo. 
\_Guard conducting JACOPO FOSCARI to the 

zvindow. 
Guard. There, sir, 'tis 

Open — How feel you ? 
yac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh Venice ! 

Guard. And your limbs ? 
yac. Fos. Limbs! how often have they 
borne me 
Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have 

skimmed 
The gondola along in childish race. 
And, masqned as a young gondolier, amidst 
My gay competitors, noble as I, 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



627 



Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of 

strength ; 
While the fair populace of crow ding beauties, 
Plebeian as patrician, cheered us on 
With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible. 
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, 
Even to the goal ! — how many a time have I 
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast most dar- 
ing, 
The wave all roughened ; with a swimmer's 

stroke 
Flinging the billows back from my drenched 

hair, 
And laughing from my lip the audacious 

brine, 
Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft, 
In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 
By those above, till they waxed fearful ; then 
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
As showed that I had searched the deep : 

exulling, 
With a f.ir-(!ashing stroke, and drawing deep 
The long-suspended breath, again I spurned 
The foam which broke around me, and pur- 
sued 
My track like a sea-bird, — I was a boy then. 
Guard. Be a man now : there never was 
more need 
Of manhood's strength. 

Jac. Fos. {^looking from the lattice). My 
beautiful, my own. 
My only Venice — this is breath ! Thy 

breeze. 
Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 
Thy very winds feel native to my veins. 
And cool them into calmness ! How un.like 
The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
Which howled about my Candiote dungeon, 

and 
Made my heart sick. 

Guard. I see the color comes 

Back to your cheek : Heaven send you 

strength to bear 
What more may be imposed ! — I dread to 
think on't. 
Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again ? 
— No — no. 
Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 

Guard. Confess, 

And the rack will be spared you. 

Jac. Fos. I confessed 

Once — twice before : both times they exiled 
me. 
Guard. And the third time will slay you. 
Jac. Fos. Let them do so. 

So I be buried in my birth-place : better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives else- 
where. 



Guard. And can you so much love tlie 

soil which hates you ? 
Jac. Fos. The soil 1 — Oh no, it is the 
seed of the soil 
Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
A dungeon, what they will, so it be here.l 

Enter an Officer. 

Offi. Bring in the prisoner 1 

Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 

Jac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a sum- 
mons ; 'tis 
The third time they have tortured me : — 

then lend me 
Thine arm. [To the Guard. 

Offi. Take mine, sir ; 'tis my duty to 

Be nearest to your person. 

Jac. Fos. You I — you are he 

Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
Away ! — I'll walk alone. 

Offi. As you please, signor ; 

The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the Council when 
They 

Jac. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their 
horrid engine. 
I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
The time will come they will renew that order, 
But keep off from me till 'tis issued. As 
I look upon thy hands, my curdling limbs 



1 [And the hero himsalf, what is he? If there 
ever existed in natin-e a case so extraordinary as 
that of a man who gravely preferred tortures and a 
dungeon at home, to a temporary residence in a 
beautiful island and a fine climate, at the distance 
of three days' sail, it is what few can be made to 
believe, and still fewer to sympathize with; and 
which is, therefore, no very promising subject for 
dramatic representation. For ourselves, we have 
little doubt that Foscari wrote the fatal letter with 
the view, which was imputed to him by his accus- 
ers, of obtaining an honorable recall from banish- 
ment, through foreign influence; and that the color 
which, when detected, he endeavored to give to the 
transaction, was the evasion of a drowning man, 
who is reduced to catch at straws and shadows. 
But, if Lord Byron chose to assume this alleged 
motive of his conduct as the real one, it behooved 
him, at least, to set before our eyes the intolerable 
separation from a beloved country, the lingeriuL; 
home-sickness, the gradual alienation of intellect, 
and the fruitless hope that his enemies had at lengih 
lelented, which were necessary to produce a conduct- 
so contrary to all usual principles of action as ih:it 
which agoin consigned him to the rac!;s and dun- 
geons of his own country. He should have shown 
him to us, first, taking leave of Venice, a con- 
demned and banished man; next pining in Candia: 
next tampering with the agents of government; by 
which time, and not till then, we should have been 
prepared to listen with patience to his complaints, 
and to witness his sufferings with interest as well as 
horror. — Heier.] 



o28 



THE 7^ WO FOSCARI. 



[act t. 



Quiver with the anticipated wrenching, 

And the cold drops strain through my brow, 

as if 

But onward — I have borne it — I can bear 

it. — 
How looks my father ? 

OJi. With his wonted aspect. 

yac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the 
blue of ocean. 
The brightness of our city, and her domes, 
The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
Its merry hum of nations pierces here. 
Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
Who govern, and the unknown and the un- 
numbered 
Judged and destroyed in silence, — all things 

wear 
The self-same aspect, to my very sire ! 
Nothing can sympathize with Foscari, 
Noc even a Foscari. — Sir, I attend you. 

[Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Officer, etc. 

Enter Mem MO and another Senator, 

Mem. He's gone — we are too late : — 
think you " the Ten " 
Will sit for any length of time to-day ? 

Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdu- 
rate. 
Persisting in his first avowal; but 
More I know not. 

Mem. And that is much ; the 

secrets 
Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
As from the people. 

Se?i. Save the wonted rumors. 

Which — like the tales of spectres, that are rife 
Near ruined buildings — never have been 

proved. 
Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as little 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfathomed mysteries. 

Mem. But with length of time 

We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

Sen. Or Doge ? 

Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it. 

Sen. 'Tis the first station of the state, and 
may 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
Attained by noble aspirants. 

Mern. To such 

I leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited : Fd rather be an unit 
Of an united and imperial " Ten," 
Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cipher. — 
Whom have we here ? the wife of Foscari ? 

Enter Marina, with a fema/e Attendant. 

Mar. What, no one ? — I am wrong, there 
still are two ; 
But they are senators. 



Mem. Most noble lady, 

Command us. 

Mar. I com7nand! — Alas! my life 

Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 
Mem. I understand thee, but I must not 

answer. 
Mar. {Jiercely). True — none dare answer 
here save on the rack. 

Or question save those 

Mem. {interrupting her). High-born dame !l 
bethink thee 
Where thou now art. 

Mar. Where I now am ! — It was 

My husband's father's palace. 
Mem. The Duke's palace. 

Mar. And his son's prison ; — true, I have 
not forgot it ; 
And if there weje no other nearer, bitterer 
Remembrances, would thank the illustrious 

Mem mo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 
Mem. Be calm ! 

Mar. {looking up towards heaven'). I am; 
but oh, thou eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world? 
Mem. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 
Mar. He is, 

In heaven. I pray you, signor senator. 
Speak not of that ; you are a man of office, 
So is the Doge ; he has a son at stake 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband, 
Or had; they are there within, or were at 

least 
An hour since, face to face, as judge and 

culprit : 
Will he condemn him f 

Mem. I trust not. 

Mar. But if 

He does not, there are those will sentence 
both. 
Mem. They can. 

Mar. And with them power and will are 
one 
In wickedness : — my husband's lost ! 

Mem. Not so ; 

Justice is judge in Venice. 

Mar. If it were so, 

There now would be no Venice. But let it 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons; but "the Ten's" is 
quicker. 



J [She was a Contarini — 
" A daughter of the house that now among 
Its ancestors in monumental brass 
Numbers eight Doges." — Rogers. 
On the occasion of her marriage with the younger 
Foscari, the Bucentaur came out in his splendor; 
and a bridge of boats was thrown across the Canal 
Grande for the bridegroom, and his retinue of three 
hundred horse. According to Sanuto, the tourna- 
ments in the place of St. Mark lasted three days, 
and were attended by thirty thousand people.] 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



629 



And we must wait on't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 
\A faint cry within. 
Sen. Hark! 

Alem. 'Twas a cry of — 

Mar. No, no ; not my husband's — 

Not Foscari's. 
Afc?n. The voice was — 

Afar. Not his : no. 

He shriek! No; that should be his father's 

part, 
Not his — not his — he'll die in silence. 

[A faint ^roan again within. 
Mem. What ! 

Again ? 

Mar. His voice ! it seemed so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love; but — no — no — no — it must have 

been 
A fearful pang, which wrung a groan from 
him. 
Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, 
wouldst thou 
Have him bear more than mortal pain, in 
silence ? 
Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I 
have not 
Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
Though they sweep both the Doge and son 

from life ; 
I have endured as much in giving life 
To those who will succeed them, as they can 
In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs : 
And yet they wrung me till I could have 

shrieked, 
But did not ; for my hope was to bring forth 
Heroes, and would not welcome them with 
tears. 
Mem. All's silent now. 

Mar. Perhaps all's over; but 

I will not deem it : he hath nerved himself, 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily. 

Mem. How now, friend, what seek you ? 

Offi. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 

{Exit Officer. 

Mem. Lady, 

'Twere better to retire. 

Sen. {offering to assist her). I pray thee do 
so. 

Mar. Off! / will tend him. 

Mem. You ! Remember, lady ! 

Ingress is given to none within those cham- 
bers, 
E.xcept " the Ten," and their familiars. 

Mar. Well, 

I know that none who enter there return 
As they have entered — many never; but 
They shall not balk my entrance. 

Mem. Alas! this 

Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse. 
And worse suspense. 



Mar. Who shall oppose me ? 

Me7n. • They 

Whose duty 'tis to do so. 

Mar. 'Tis their duty 

To trample on all human feelings, ah 
Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing! Yet I'll pass. 

Me/n. It is impossible. 

Mar. That shall be tried. 

Despair defies even despotism : there is 
That in my heart would make its way through 

hosts 
With levelled spears ; and think you a few 

jailors 
Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, 

way. 
This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son. 
And they shall hear this ! 

Mem. It will only serve 

More to exasperate his judges. 

x\far. What 

Are judges who give way to anger ? they 
Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 

[Exit Marina. 

Sen. Poor lady ! 

Mem. 'Tis mere desperation : she 

Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 

Sen. And 

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
But, see, the officer returns. 

\_The Officer passes over the stage with a?i- 
other person. 

Mem. I hardly 

Thought that " the Ten " had even this touch 

of pity, / 

Or would permit assistance to this sufferer. 

Sen. Pity ! Is't pity to recall to feeling 
The wretch too happy to escape to death 
By the compassionate trance, poor nature's 

last 
Resource against the tyranny of pain ? 

Mem. I marvel they condemn him not at 
once. 

Sen. That's not their policy : they'd have 
him live. 
Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
Because all earth, except his native land. 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison. 
Consuming but not killing. 

Mem. Circumstance 

C^firms his crimes, but he avows them not. 

Sen. None, save the Letter, which he says 
was written, 
Addressed to Milan's duke, in the full knowl- 
edge 
That it would fall into the senate's hands. 
And thus he should be reconveyed to Venice. 

Mem. But as a culprit. 

Sen, Yes, but to his country 



630 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



[ACT I. 



And that was all he sought, — so he avouches. 
Mem. The accusation of the bribes was 

proved. 
Sen. Not clearl}^ and the charge of homi- 
cide 
Has been annulled by the death-bed confession 
Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chief of " the Ten." 1 

Mem. Then why not clear him ? 

S€7i. ' That 

They ought to answer; for it is well known 
That Almoro Donate, as I said. 
Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 
Mem. There must be more in this strange 
process than 
The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
But here come two of " the Ten ; " let us re- 
tire. \Exeunt MEM MO and Senator. 

Enter LOREDANO and BARBARIGO. 

Bar. {addressing LOR.). That were too 
much: believe me, 'twas not meet 
The trial should go further at this moment. 
Lor. And so the Council must break up, 
and Justice 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations ? 

Bar. No. 

That's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's 
state. 
Lor. And had he not recovered ? 
Bar. To relapse 

Upon the least renewal. 

Lor. 'Twas not tried. 

Bar. 'Tis vain to murmur ; the majority 
In council were against you. 

Lor. * Thanks to you, sir. 

And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o'er-ruled my own. 
Bar. I am a judge; but must confess that 
part 
Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Ques- 
tion. 



^ [The extraordinary sentence pronounced against 
him, still existing among the archives of Venice, 
runs thus: — " Giacopo Foscari, accused of the 
murder of Hermolao Donato, has been arrested and 
examined; and, from the testimony, evidence, and 
documents exhibited, it distinctly appears that he 
is guilty of the aforesaid crime; nevertheless, on 
account of his obstinacy, and of enchantments and 
spells, in his possession, of which there are manifest 
proofs, it has not been possible to extract from him 
the truth, which is clear from parol and written 
evidence; for, while he was on the cord, he uttered 
neither word nor groan, but only murmured some- 
thing to himself indistinctly and under his breath; 
therefore as the honor of the state requires, he is 
condemned to a more distant banishment in Candia." 
Will it he credited, that a distinct proof of his inno- 
cence, obtained by the discovery of the real assassin, 
wriuprht no chanee in his unjust and cruel sen- I 
tence? " — S medley. \ 



And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
Makes me wish 

Lor. What ? 

Bar. That you would sometimes feel, 

As I do always. 

L^or. Go to, you're a child, 

Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
For Venice 1 and a worthy statesman to 
Be partner in my policy. 

Bar. He shed 

No tears. 

Lor. He cried out twice. 

Bar. A saint had done so, 

Even with the crown of glory in his eye, 
At such inhuman artitice of pain 
As was forced on him ; but he did not cry 
For pity; not a word nor groan escaped him, 
And those two shrieks were not in supplica- 
tion. 
But wrung from pangs, and followed by no 
prayers. 

Lor. He muttered many times between 
his teeth. 
But inarticulately. 

Bar. That I heard not ; 

You stood more near him. 

Lor. I did so. 

Bar. Methought, 

To my surprise too, you were touched with 

mercy. 
And were the first to call out for assistance 
When he was failing. 

Lor. I believed that swoon 

His last. 

Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
His and his father's death your nearest wish ? 

Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say. 
With his guilt unavowed, he'll be lamented. 

Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his memory ? 

Lor. Wouldst thou have 

His state descend to his children, as it must. 
If he die unattainted ? 

Bar. War with them too ? 

Lor. With all their house, till theirs or 
mine are nothing. 

Bar. And the deep agony of his pale wife. 
And the repressed convulsion of the high 
And princely brow of his old father, which 
Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though 

rarely. 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity ; these moved you not ? 

{Exit LOREDANO. 
He's silent in his hate, as Foscari 
Was in his suffering; and the poor wretch 

moved me 
More by his silence than a thousand outcries 
Could have effected. 'Twas a dreadful sight 
When his distracted wife broke through into 
The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



631 



What we could scarcely look upon, long used 
To such sights. I must think no more of this, 
Lest I forget in this compassion for 
Our foes their foimer injuries, and lose 
The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 
i"or him and me; but mine would be content 
With lesser retribution than he thirsts for, 
And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 
To milder thoughts; but for the present, 

Foscari 
Has a short hourly respite, granted at 
The instance of the elders of the Council, 
Mi)ved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 
The hall, and his own sufferings, — Lo ! they 

come : 
How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 
To look on them again in this extremity: 
('11 hence, and try to soften Loredano. 

\^Extt Barbarigo. 



ACT IL 

Scene \. — A Hall in the Doge's Palace. 

The Doge and a SENATOR. 

Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 

Doge. Now; 

I overlooked it yesterday : it wants 
Merely the signature. Give me the pen — 

[ The Doge sits down and signs the paper. 
There, signor. 

Sen. {looking at the paper). You have for- 
got ; it is not signed. 
Doge. Not signed ? Ah, I perceive my eyes 
begin 
To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
That I had dipped the pen without effect.! 
Sen. {^dipping the pen into the i7tk, and plac- 
ing the paper before the DOGE). Your 
hand, too, shakes, my lord : allow me, 
thus — 
Doge. 'Tis done, I thank you. 
Sen. Thus the act confirmed 

By you and by " the Ten " gives peace to 
Venice. 
Doge. 'Tis long since she enjoyed it : may 
it be 
As long ere she resume her arms ! 

Sen. 'Tis almost 

Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
With the Turk, or the powers of Italy; 
The state had need of some repose. 

Doge. No doubt : 

I found her Queen of Ocean, and I leave her 
Lady of Lombardy ; ^ it is a comfort 



1 [MS.— 

" That I had dipped the pen too heedlessly."] 

2 [MS.— 

" Mistress Qf Lombardy — it is some comfort."] 



That I have added to her diadem 
The gems of Brescia and Ravenna ; Crema 
And Bergamo no less are hers; her re.ilm 
By land has grown by thus much in my reign. 
While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 

Sen. 'Tis most true. 

And merits all our country's gratitude. 

Doge. Perhaps so. 

Sen. Which should be made manifest. 

Doge. I have not complained, sir. 

Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 

Doge. For what ? 

Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 

Doge. For me, signor ? 

Sen. And for your 

Doge. Stop ! 

Sen. It must have way, my lord ; 

I have too many duties towards you 
And all your house, for past and present kind- 
ness. 
Not to feel deeply for your son. 

Doge. Was this 

In your commission ? 

Sen. What, my lord ? 

Doge. This prattle 

Of things you know not : but the treaty's 

signed ; 
Return with it to them who sent you. 

Sen. I 

Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council 
That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 

Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at 
this moment, 
If it so please them: I am the state's servant. 

Sen. They would accord some time for 
your repose. 

Doge. I have no repose, that is, none which 

shall cause 

The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 

Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 

Where I should be, and luhat I have been ever. 

[^.W/ Senator. 

[ The DOGE remains in silence. 

Enter an Attendant. 

Att. Prince ! 

Doge. Say on. 

Att. The illustrious lady Foscari 

Requests an audience. 

Doge. Bid her enter. Poor 

Marina ! \Exit Attendant. 

[ The DOGE remains in silence as be/ore. 

Enter MARINA. 

Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
Your privacy. 

Doge. I have none from you, my child. 

Command my time, when not commanded by 
The state. 

Mar. I wished to speak to you of hirn. 

Doge. Your husband ? 

Mar, And your son. 



632 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act II. 



Doge. Proceed, my daughter ! 

Mar. I had obtained permission from " the 
Ten" 
To attend my husband for a limited number 
Of hours. 

Doge. You had so. 

Mar. 'Tis revoked. 

Doge. By whom ? 

Mar. " The Ten." — When we had reached 
" the Bridge of Sighs," 
Which 1 prepared to pass with Foscari, 
The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
Demurred : a messenger was sent back to 
" The Ten ; " but as the court no longer sate, 
And no permission had been given in writing, 
I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
Until that high tribunal re-assembled 
The dungeon walls must still divide us. 

Doge. True, 

The form has been omitted in the haste 
With which the court adjourned ; and till it 

meets, 
'Tis dubious. 

Afar. Till it meets ! and when it meets, 

They'll torture him again ; and he and / 
Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
The interview of husband and of wife. 
The holiest tie beneath the heavens! — Oh 

God! 
Dost thou see this ? 

Doge. Child — child 

Mar. {abruptly^. Call me not " child ! " 

You soon will have no children — you deserve 

none — 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
In circumstances which would call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did 

not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
Stretched forth a hand to save them ? 

Doge. You behold me : 

I cannot weep — I would I could; but if 
Each white hair on this head were a young life. 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them — I'd give all 
For him. 

Mar. With less he surely might be saved. 

Doge. That answer only shows you know 
not Venice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not her- 
self. 
In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his father; 
The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
They work by different means to the same 
end, 

And that is but they have not conquered 

yet. 

Mar. But they have crushed. 

Doge. Nor crushed as yet — I live. 



Mar. And your son, — how long will he 

live ? 
Doge. I trust. 

For all that yet is past, as many years 
And happier than his father. The rash boy, 
With womanish impatience to return, 
Hath ruined all by that detected letter: 
A high crime, which I neither can deny 
Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke: 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has 

quenched them — 
He must return. 
Mar. To exile ? 

Doge. I have said it. 

Mar. And can I not go with him ? 
Doge. You well know 

This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
Will be accorded to a third request, 
Since aggravated errors on the part 
Of your lord renders them still more austere. 
Mar. Austere ? Atrocious ! The old hu- 
man fiends. 
With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, 

strange 
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and 

heads 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they coun- 
sel. 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Were no more than the feelings long extin- 
guished 
In their accursed bosoms. 

Doge. You know not 

Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, 
methinks — 
That these are demons : could it be else that 
Men, who have been of women born and 

suckled — 
Who have loved, or talked at least of love — 

have given 
Their hands in sacred vows — have danced 

their babes 
Upon their knees, perhaps have mourned 

above them — 
In pain, in peril, or in death — who are. 
Or were at least in seeming, human, could 
Do as they have done by yours, and you your- 
self. 
You, who abet them ? 

Doge. I forgive this, for 

You know not what you say. 

Alar. You know it well, 

And feel it nothing. 

Doge. I have borne so much, 

That Words have ceased to shake me. 

Mar. Oh, no doubt ! 

You have seen your son's blood flow, and 

your flesh shook not : 
And after that, what are a woman's wprds ? 



SCENE 1.] 



THE TWO EOSCAkL 



633 



No more than woman's tears, that they should 
shake you. 

Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of 
thine, I tell thee, 
Is no more in the balance weighed with that 
Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from 
me ; 
Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 'tis a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 

Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though 
they wrong me. 
Couldst thou but read 

Mar. 'Tis not upon thy brow, 

Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where 

then 
Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 

Doge, {pointing downwards). There. 

Mar. In the earth ? 

Doge, To which I am tending : when 

It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which 

press it 
Now, you will know me better. 

Mar. Are you, then, 

Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 

Doge. Pitied ! None 

Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloak their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit 

one 
To mingle with my name ; that name shall be, 
As far as / have borne it, what it was 
When I received it. 

Mar. But for the poor children 

Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save, 
You were the last to bear it. 

Doge. Would it were so ! 

Better for him he never had been born ; 
Better for me. — I have seen our house dis- 
honored. 

Mar. That's false ! A truer, nobler, trustier 
heart. 
More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband. 
Oppressed but not disgraced, crushed, over- 
whelmed, 
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
In story or in table, with a world 
To back his suit. Dishonored! — he dis- 
honored ! 
I tell thee, Doge, 'tis Venice is dishonored ; 
His name sliall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
For what he suffers, not for what he did. 
'Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! — ye ! 
Did you but love your country like this victim 
Who totters back in chains to' tortures, and 
Submits to all things rather than to exile, 
You'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

Doge. He was 

Indeed all you have said. I better bore 



The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from 

me. 
Than Jacopo's disgrace. 

Mar. That word again ? 

Doge. Has he not been condemned ? 
Mar. Is none but guilt so ? 

Doge. Time may restore his memory — I 
would hope so. 

He was my pride, my but 'tis useless 

now — 
I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
When he was born : those drops were ominous. 
Mar. I say he's innocent ! And were he 
not so, 
Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 
In fatal moments ? 

Doge. I shrank not from him : 

But I have other duties than a father's ; 
The state would not dispense me from those 

duties; 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused : 
They must then be fulfiUed.i 

Enter an Attendant. 

Att. A message from 

" The Ten." 

Doge. Who bears it ? 

Att. Noble Loredano. 

Doge. He! — but admit him. 

\^Exit Attendant. 

Mar. Must I then retire ? 

Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 

Concerns your husband, and if not Well, 

signor. 
Your pleasure ! [ To LOREDANO entering. 

Lor. I bear that of " the Ten." 

Doge. They 

Have chosen well their envoy. 

Lor. 'Tis their choice 

Which leads me here. 

Doge. It does their wisdom honor, 

And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 

1 [The interest of this play is founded upon feel- 
ings so peculiar or overstrained, as to engnge no 
sympathy; and the whole story turns on incidents 
that are neither pleasing nor natural. The yoimger 
Foscari undergoes the rack twice (once in the hear- 
ing of the audience), merely because he has chosen 
to feign himself a traitor, that he might be brought 
back from undeserved banishment, and dies at last 
of pure dotage on this sentiment; while the elder 
Foscari submits, in profound and immovable silence, 
to this treatment of his son, lest, by seeming to feel 
for his unhappy fate, he should be implicated in his 
guilt — though he is supposed guiltless. He, the 
Doge, is afraid to stir hand or foot, to look or speak, 
while these inexplicable horrors are transacting, on 
account of the hostility of one Loredano, who lords 
it in the council of" the Ten," nobody knows why 
or how; and who at last "enmeshes" both father 
and son in his toils, in spite of their passive obedi- 
ence and non-resistance to his plans. They arc 
silly flies for this spider to cntch, and " feed fat his 
ancient grudge upon." — Jeffrey.^ 



634 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act a 



Lor. We have decided. 

Doge. We ? 

Lor. " The Ten " in council. 

Doge. What! have they met again, and 
met without 
Apprising me ? 

Lor. They wished to spare your feelings, 
No less than age. 

Doge. That's new — when spared they 
either ? 
I thank them, notwithstanding. 

Lor. You know well 

That they have power to act at their discretion, 
With or without the presence of the Doge, 

Doge. 'Tis some years since I learned this, 
long before 
I became Doge, or dreamed of such advance- 
ment. 
You need not school me, signor; I sate in 
That council when you were a young patrician. 

Lor. True, in my father's time; I have 
heard him and 
The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
Your highness may remember them ; they 

both 
Died suddenly. 

Doi^e. And if they did so, better 

So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 

Lor. No doubt; yet most men like to live 
their days out. 

Doge. And did not they ? 

Lor. The grave knows best : they died, 

As I said, suddenly. 

Doge. Is tliat so strange. 

That you repeat the word emphatically ? 

Lor. So far from strange, that never was 
there death 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
'Y\\v!\Vyoii not so ? 

Doge. What should I think of mortals ? 

Lor. That they have mortal foes. 

Doge. I understand you ; 

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all 
things. 

Lor. You best know if I should be so. 

Doge. I do. 

Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
Foul rumors were abroad; I have also read 
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
To poison. 'Tis perhaps as true as most 
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
A fable. 

Lor. Who dares say so ? 

Doge. I ! — 'Tis true 

Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 
I never worked by plot in council, nor 
Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
The proof is, your existence. 

Lor, I fear not. 



Doge. You have no cause, being what I 

am ; but were I 
That you would have me thought, you long 

ere now 
Were past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care 

not. 
Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
That io, by open means. 

Doge. But I, good signor, 

Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke. 
In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they 

know 
Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be 

sure. 
Before or since that period, had I held you 
At so much price as to require your absence, 
A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
As would have made you nothing. But in all 

things 
I have observed the strictest reverence ; 
Not for the laws alone, for those you have 

strained 
(I do not speak of you but as a single 
Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
I could enforce for my authority. 
Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 
I have observed with veneration, like 
A priest's for the high altar, even unto 
The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet. 
Safety, and all save honor, the decrees, 
The health, the pride, and welfare of the state, 
.'^nd now, sir, to your business. 

Lor. 'Tis decreed. 

That, Vv ithout further repetition of 
The Question, or continuance of the trial, 
VVhich only tends to show how stubborn gtiilt 

is, 
(" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
Which still prescribes the Question till a full 
Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
Avowed his crime in not denying that 
The letter to the Duke of Milan's his), 
James Foscari, return to banishment. 
And sail in the same galley which conveyed 

him. 
Mar. Thank God ! At least they will not 

drag him more 
Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 
But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
Desire, were to escape from such a land. 
Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my 

daughter. 
Afar. No, 'twas too human. May I share 

his exile ? 
Lor. Of this " the Ten " said nothing. 
Afar. So I thought: 

That were too human, also. But it was not 
Inhibited ? 
Lor. It was not named. 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



635 



Mar. {to the DOGE). Then, father, 

Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

[yb LOREUANO. 

And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
Permitted to accompany my husband. 

Doge. I will endeavor. 

Mar. And you, signor ? 

Lor. Lady ! 

'Tis not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
Of the tribunal. 

Mar. Pleasure ! what a word 
To use for the decrees of 

Doge. Daughter, know you 

In what apresenceyoupronouncethesethings? 

Mar. A prince's and his subject's. 

Lor. Subject ! 

Mar. Oh ! 

It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
You think; but that you are not, nor would be. 
Were he a peasant: — well, then, you're a 

prince, 
A princely noble ; and what then am I ? 

Lor. The offspring of a noble house. 

Mar. And wedded 

To one as noble. What, or whose, then, is 
The presence that should silence my free 
thoughts ? 

Lor. The presence ofyour husband's judges. 

Doge. And 

The deference due even to tlie lightest word 
That falls from those who rule in Venice. 

Mar. Keep 

Those maxims for your mass of scared me- 
chanics, 
Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek 

slaves. 
Your tributaries, your dumb citizens. 
And masked nobility, your sbirri, and 
»Your spies, your galley and your other slaves. 
To whom your midnight carryings off and 

drownings, 
Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
The water's level; your mysterious meetings, 
And unknown dooms, and sudden executions. 
Your "Bridge of Sighs," i your strangling 

chamber, and 
Your torturing instruments, have made ye 

seem 
The beings of another and worse world ! 
Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye ; 
Have known and proved your worst, in the in- 
fernal 
Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 
Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
With him. Then what have I to {ea.x from you, 
Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
I trust I am not ? 

Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 

Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

Lor. Lady! words 



[Sec ante, p. 537.] 



Uttered within these walls I bear no further 
Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state's ser- 
vice. 
Doge ! have you aught in answer ? 

Doge. Something from 

The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 

Lor. My Mission here is to the Doge. 

Doge. Then say 

The Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
Or state in person what is meet ; and for 
The father 

Lor. I remember mine. — Farewell I 

I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady, 
And bow me to the Duke. [Exit LOREDANO, 

Mar. Are you content ? 

Doge. I am what you behold. 

ALar. And that's a mystery. 

Doge. All things are so to mortals; who 
can read them 
Save he who made ? Or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored 

upon 
Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and 

brain, '^ 
But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
And when we cry out against Fate 'twere well 
We should remember Fortune can take nought 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness, 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities. 
The universal heritage, to battle 
With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
Where hunger swallows all in one low want.s 
And the original ordinance, that man 
Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all 

passions 
Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low, 
And false, and hollow — clay from first to last. 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
Less than their breath ; our durance upon days, 
Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
Something which is not us/ — So, we are 

slaves. 
The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 4 
And when we think we lead, we are most led, 



The blackest leaf, his heart, and 
blankest his brain."] 



2 [MS. ■ 

3 [MS. ■ 

Where hunger swallows all — wherever was 
The monarch who could bear a three days' fast? "] 

* [MS.— "the will itself dependent 

Upon a storm, a straw, and both alik« 
Leading to death."] 



636 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act hi. 



And still towards death, a thing which comes 

as much 
Without our act or choice as birth, so that 
Methinks we must have sinned in some old 

world, 
And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
Eternal. 

Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

Doge. And how then shall we judge each 
other, 
Who are all earth, and I, who am called upon 
To judge my son ? I have administered 
My country faithfully — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
She was and is : my reign has doubled realms ; 
And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 

Mar. And Foscari ? I do not think of such 
things. 
So I be left with him. 

Doge. You shall be so ; 

Thus much they cannot well deny. 

Mar. And if 

They should, I will fly with him. 

Doge. That can ne'er be. 

And whither would you fly ? 

Mar. I know not, reck not — 

To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
Anywhere, where we might respire unfettered, 
And live nor girt by spies, nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade 
for husband, 
And turn him into traitor ? 

Mar. He is none ! 

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
None rebels except subjects? The prince 

who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 
A brigand than the robber-chief. 

Doge. I cannot 

Charge me with such a breach of faith. 

Mar. No ; thou 

Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as make old 

Draco's 
A code of mercy by comparison. 

Doge. I found the law ; I did not make it. 
Were I 
A subject, still I might find parts and portions 
Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
Would change, for the sake of my house, the 

charter 
Left by our fathers. 

Mar. Did they make it for 

The ruin of their children ? 

Doge. Under such laws, Venice 

Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
In glory (for we have had Roman spirits 



Amongst us) , all that history has bequeathed 
Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, 

when 
The people swayed by senates. 

Mar. Rather say, 

Groaned under the stern oligarchs. 

Doge. Perhaps so ; 

But yet subdued the world : in such a state 
An individual, be he richest of 
Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
The policy, irrevocably tending 
To one great end, must be maintained in 
vigor. 

Mar. This means that you are more a 
Doge than father. 

Doge. It means, I am more citizen than 
either. 
If we had not for many centuries 
Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 

Mar, Accursed be the city where the laws 
Would stifle nature's ! 

Doge. Had I as many sons 

As I have years, I would have given them all, 
Not without feeling, but I would have given 

them 
To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism. 
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
She might decree. 

Mar. And this is patriotism ? 

To me it seems the woi'st barbarity. 
Let me seek out my husband : the sage 

" Ten," 
With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
So far with a weak woman as deny me 
A moment's access to his dungeon. ^ 

Doge. I'll 

So far take on myself, as order that 
You may be admitted. 

Mar. And what shall I say 

To Foscari from his father ! 

Doge. That he obey 

The laws. 

Mar. And nothing more ? Will you not 
see him 
Ere he depart ? It may be the last time. 

Doge. The last 1 — my boy ! — the last time 
I shall see 
My last of children ! Tell him I will come. 

\Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — The Prison <?/ JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Jac. Fos. {solus). ' No light, save yon faint 
gleam which shows me walls 
Which never echoed but to sorrow's sounds, 
The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 



SCENE I.J 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



637 



Of feet on which the iron clanked, the groan 
Of death, the imprecation of despair ! 
And yet for this I have returned to Venice, 
With some faint hope, 'tis true, that time, which 

wears 
The marble down, had worn away the hate 
Of men's hearts; but I knew them not, and 

here 
Must I consume my own, which never beat 
P'or Venice but with such a yearning as 
The dove has for her distant nest, when 

wheeling 
High in the air on her return to greet 
Her callow brood. What letters are these 

which \.4.pproachi)ig the 7vall. 

Are scrawled along the inexorable wall ? 
Will the gleam let me trace them ? Ah ! the 

names 
Of my sad predecessors in this place. 
The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
A grief too great for many. This stone page 
Holds like an epitaph their history ; 
And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
His ow]i and his beloved's name. Alas, 
I recognize some names familiar to me, 
And blighted like to mine, which I will add. 
Fittest for such a chronicle as this. 
Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches.i 
\He engraves his tta?ne. 

Enter a Familiar of " the Ten." 2 

Fam. I bring you food, 

yac. Fos. I pray you set it down ; 

I am past hunger : but my lips are parched — 
The water ! 

Fufn. There. 

yac. Fos. {after drinking) . I thank you : 
I am better. 

Fam. I am commanded to inform you that 
Your further trial is postponed, 

Jac. Fos. Till when ? 

Fam. 1 know not, — It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady be admitted. 

yac. Fos. Ah ! they relent, then — I had 
ceased to hope it : 
'Twas time. 

Enter MARINA. 



'[MS. — 
" Which never can be read but, as 'twas written, 

By wretched beings."] 

2 [Lord Byron, in this tragedy, has not ventured 
upon further deviation from historical truth than is 
fully authorized by the license of the drama. We 
may remark, however, that after Giacopo had been 
tortured, he was removed to the Ducal apartments, 
not to one of the Pozzi; that his death occurred, not 
at Venice, but at Canea; that fifteen months elapsed 
between his last condemnation and his father's dep- 
osition ; and that the death of the Doge took place, 
not at the palace, but in his own house, — Smed- 



Mar. My best beloved ! 

yac. Fos. {em'bracinq^her ). My true wife. 
And only friend ! What happiness ! 

Mar. We'll part 

No more. 
yac. Fos. How 1 wouldst thou share a dun- 
geon ? 
Mar. Ay, 

The rack, the grave, all — any thing with thee, 
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
Share that — all things except new separa- 
tion; 
It is too much to have survived the first. 
How dost thou ? How are those worn limbs ? 
Alas! 

Why do I ask ? Thy paleness 

ya.c. Fos. 'Tis the joy 

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like 

thine. 
For thou art pale too, my Marina ! 

Mar. 'Tis 

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 3 
To darkness more than light, by lending to 
The dungeon vapors its bituminous smoke, 
Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine 

eyes — 
No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they 
sparkle ! 
yac. Fos. And thine! — but I am blinded 

by the torch. 
Mar. As I have been without it. Couldst 

thou see here ? 
yac. Fos. Nothing at first ; but use and 
time had taught me 
Familiarity with what was darkness ; 
And the gray twilight of such glimmerings as 
Glide through the crevices made by the winds 
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
Save those of Venice ; but a moment ere 
Thou earnest hither I was busy writing. 
Mar. What ? 

yac. Fos. My name: look, 'tis there — re- 
corded next 
The name of him who here preceded me, 
If dungeon dates say true. 
Mar. And what of him ? 

yac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's 
ends ; they only 
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern 

walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead. 
Or those who soon must be so. — What of 

him ? _ 

3[MS.— 

" Of the familiar's torch, which seems to loTC 
Darkness far more than light."] 



638 



THE TWO FOSCART. 



[act in. 



Thou askest. — What of me? may soon be 

asked, 
With the like answer — doubt and dreadful 

surmise — 
Unless thou tell'st my tale. 

Mar. I speak of thee ! 

Jac. Fos. And wherefore not ? All then 
shall speak of me : 
The tyranny of silenee is not lasting, 
And, though events be hidden, just men's 

groans 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's ! 
I do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
And neither do I fear. 

Mar. Thy life is safe. 

Jac. Fos. And liberty ? 

Afar. The mind should make its own. 

yac. Fos. That has a noble sound ; but 
'tis a sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient : 
The mind is much, but is not all. The 

mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
And torture positive, far worse than death 
(If death be a deep sleep), withiiut a groan, 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me , but 'tis not all, for there are things 
More woful — such as this small dungeon, 

where 
I may breathe many years. 

Mar. Alas ! and this 

Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 

yac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid 
me to endure it. 
My doom is common, many are in dungeons, 
Biit none like mine, so near their father's 

palace ; 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream along those moted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which at^brd 
Our only day ; for, save the gaoler's torch, 
And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught 
Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas! 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no. 
For I have such, and shown it before men ; 
It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 

Afar I will be with thee. 

yac. Fos. Ah ! if it were so ! 

But that they never granted — nor will grant, 
And I shall be alone: no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I asked for even those outlines of their kind. 
Which they term annals, historv, what you 

will. 
Which men bequeathe as portraits, and they 

were 
Refused me, — so these walls have been my 

study. 
More faithful pictures of Venetian story. 
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 



The Hall not tar from hence, which bears on 

high 
Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 

Afar. I come to tell thee the result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 

yac. Fos. I know it — look ! 

[ffe points to his limbs, as referrin^^ to the 
question which he haJ iinderi^^one. 

Afar. No — no — no more of that : even 
they relent 
From that atrocity. 

Jac. Fos. What then ? 

'Afar. That you 

Return to Candia, 

yac. Fos. Then my last hope's gone. 

I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice ; 
I could support the torture, there was some- 
thing 
In my native air that buoyed my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean tossed by storms, 
But proudly still bestriding the higii waves, 
And holding on its course ; but there, afar. 
In that accursed isle of slaves and captives. 
And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck. 
My very soul seemed mouldering in my 

bosom. 
And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 

Afar. And here f 

yac. Fos. At once — by better means, as 
briefer. 
What ! would they even deny me my sire's 

sepulchre. 
As well as home and heritage ? 

Afar. My husband ! 

I have sued to accompany thee hence. 
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
For an ungratelul and tyrannic soil 
Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me, 
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect, 
And the sweot freedom of the earth and air, 
I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise ; its first inhabitants 
Were wretched exiles. 

yac. Fos. Well I know how wretched. 

Afar. And yet you see how from their 
banishment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
Their antique energy of mind, all that 
Remained of Rome for their inheritance. 
Created by degrees an ocean-Rome ; ^ 
And shall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus ? 

yac. Fos. Had I gone forth 

From my own land, like the old patriarchs, 
seeking 

^ In Lady Morgan's fearless'and excellent work 
upon Italy, I perceive the expression of " Rome of 
the Ocean " applied to Venice. The snme phrnse 
occurs in the "Two Foscari." My publisher can 
vouch for me, that the tragedy was written and sent 
to England some time before 1 had seen Lady Mor- 



SCENE I,] 



THE TWO FOSCAKI. 



639 



Another region, with their flocks and herds ; 

Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, 

Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 

From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 

I would have given some tears to my late 

country. 
And many thoughts ; but afterwards addressed 
Myself, with those about me, to create 
A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could 
Have borne this — though I know not. 

Mar. Wherefore not ? 

It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fate of myriads more. 

Jac. Fos. Ay — we but hear 

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 
Their numbers and success ; but who can 

number 
The hearts which broke in silence of that 

parting, 
Or after their departure; of that malady 1 
Which calls up green and native fields to view 
From the rough deep, with such identity 
To the poor exile's fevered eye, that he 
Can scarcely be restrained from treading 

them ? 
That melody ,2 which out of tones and tunes 
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 



gan's work, which I only received on the i6th of 
August. I hasten, however, to notice the coinci- 
dence, and to yield the originality of the phrase to 
her who first placed it before the public. 1 am the 
more anxious to do this, as I am informed (for I 
have seen but few of the specimens, and those 
accidentally) that there have been lately brought 
against me charges of plagiarism. 

1 The calenture. — [A distemper peculiar to sai- 
lors in hot climates. — 

" So by a calenture misled 

The mariner with rapture sees 
On the smooth ocean's azure bed 

Enamelled fields and verdant trees: 
With eager haste he longs to rove. 

In that fantastic scene, and thinks 
It must be some enchanted grove, 
And in he leaps, and down he sinks." 

Swift.] 

2 Alluding to the Swiss air and its effects. — [The 
Ranz des Vaches, played upon the bagpipe by the 
young cow-keepers on the mountains: — "An air," 
says Rousseau, " so dear to the Swiss, that it was 
forbidden, under the pain of death, to play it to the 
troops, as it immediately drew tears from them, and 
made those who heard it desert, or die of what is 
called la malndie dn pais, so ardent a desire did it 
excite to return to their country. It is in vain to 
seek in this air for energetic accents capable of pro- 
ducing such astonishing effects, for which strangers 
are unable to account from the music, which is in 
itself uncouth and wild. But it is from habit, recol- 
lections, and a thousand circumstances, retraced in 
this tune by those natives who hear it, and remind- 
ing them of their country, former pleasures of their 
youth, and all their ways of living, which occasion 
a bitter reflection at having lost them."] 



From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds. 
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous 

thought. 
And dies. You call this weakness/ It is 

strength, 
I ?ay, — the parent of all honest feeling. 
He who loves not his country, can lovi; nothing. 
Afar. Obey her, then : 'tis she that puts 

thee forth. 
Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is ; 'tis like a mother's 
curse 
Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations. 
Their hands upheld each other by the way. 
Their tents were pitched together — I'm alone. 
Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go 

with thee. 
Jac. Fos. My best Marina 1 — and our 

children ? 
Mar. They, 

I fear, by the prevention of the state's 
Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
As threads, which may be broken at her 

pleasure,) 
Will not be suffered to proceed with us. 
yac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 
Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 

But — I can leave them, children as they are, 
To teach you to be less a child. From this 
Learn you to sway your feelings, when ex- 
acted 
By duties paramount ; and 'tis our first 
On earth to bear. 
yac. Fos. Have I not borne ? 

Mar. Too mucl: 

From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
To teach you not to shrink now from a lot. 
Which, as compared with what you have un 

dergone 
Of late is mercy. 

yac. Fos. Ah ! you never yet 

Were far away from V'enicr, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance. 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seemed ploughing deep into your heart ; you 

never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory. 
And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them 
not. 
Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us 
think 
Of our departure from this much-loved city, 
(Since you must love it, as it seems,) and this 
Chamljer of state, her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles; we must sail ere night. 
yac. Fos. That's sudden. Shall I not 

behold my father ? 
A^ar. You will. 
yac. Fos. Where ? • 



640 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act hi. 



Afar. Here, oi in the ducal chamber — 

He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile as he bears it. 

jfac. Fos. Blame him not. 

I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He could not now act otherwise. A show . 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from " the Ten," and upon mine 
Accumulated ills. 

Mar. Accumulated ! 

What pangs are those they have spared you ? 

jfac. Fos. That of leaving 

Venice with out beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now, as 

'twas 
Upon my former exile. 

Mar. That is true. 

And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floating on the free waves — away — away — 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorred, 
Unjust and 

yac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent, 
Who dares accuse my country ? 

Mar. Men and angels, 

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven. 
The groans of slaves in chains, and men in 

dungeons, 
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and 

subjects, 
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou 

say 
Aught in its favor, who would praise like thee ? 

Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since so 
it must be. 
To our departure. Who comes here ? 

Enter LOREDANO, attended by Familiars. 

Lor. {to the Familiars). Retire, 

But leave the torch. 

\_Exeunt the two Fatniliars. 

yac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signor. 

I did not deem this poor place could have 

dravvn 
Such presence hither. 

Lor. 'Tis not the first time 

I have visited these places. 

Mar. Nor would be 

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 

Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady ! 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce " the Ten's " decree. 

Mar. That tenderness 

Has been anticipated : it is known. 

Lor. As how ? 

Mar. I have informed him, not so gently, 
Doubtless, as your nice feelings would pre- 
scribe, « 



The indulgence of your colleagues ; but he 

knew it. 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and 

hence ! 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without 

you, 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

yac. Fos. I pray you, calm you : 

What can avail such words ? 

Mar. To let him know 

That he is known. 

Lor. Let the fair dame preserve 

Her sex's privilege. 

Mar. I have some sons, sir, 

Will one day thank you better. 

Lor. You do well 

To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
Your sentence, then ? 

yac. Fos. Return to Candia ? 

Lor. True — 

For life. 

yac. Fos. Not long. 

Lor. I said — for life. 

yac. Fos. And I 

Repeat — not long. 

Lor. A year's imprisonment 

In Canea — afterwards the freedom of 
The whole isle. 

yac. Fos. Both the same to me : the after 
Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is't true my wife accompanies me ? 

Lor. Yes, 

If she so wills it. 

Afar. Who obtained that justice ? 

Lor. One who wars not with women. 

Mar. But oppresses 

Men : howsoever let him have /;// thanks 
For the only boon I would have asked or 

taken 
From him or such as he is. 

Lor. He receives them 

As they are offered. 

Afar. May they thrive with him 

So much ! — no more. 

yac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mis- 
sion ? 
Because we have brief time for preparation. 
And you perceive your presence doth dis- 
quiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 

Afar. Nobler ! 

Lor. How nobler ? 

Afar. As more generous ! 

We say the "generous steed" to express the 

purity 
Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, 

although 
Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze). 
From those Venetians who have skimmed the 

coasts 
Of Egypt, and her neighbor Araby : 



SCENE I.J 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



641 



And why not say as soon the "generous 

7nan ? " 
If race be aught, it is in qualities 
More than in years ; and mine, which is as 

old 
As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
Look not so stern — but get you back, and 

pore 
Upon your genealogic tree's most green 
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
Blush to find ancestors, who would have 

blushed 
Foi such a son — thou cold inveterate hater! 
yac. Fos. Again, Marina ! 
Mar. Again, still, Marina. 

See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
With a last look upon our misery ? 
Let him partake it ! 
yac. Fos. That were difficult. 

Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it 

now — 
Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 
And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
A few brief words of truth shame the devil's 

servants 
No less than master ; I have probed his soul 
A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long. 
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks 

from me! 
With death, and chains, and exile in his hand 
To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit; 
They are his weapons, not his armor, for 
I have pierced him to the core of his cold 

heart. 
I care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
And he but live, for him the very worst 
Of destinies : each day secures him more 
His tempter's. 
Jac. Fos. This is mere insanity. 
Afar. It may be so ; and who hath made 

us mad? 
Lor. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 
Mar. That's false. 

You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You 

came 
To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears. 
And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the 

wreck 
Which you have made a prince's son — my 

husband ; 
In short, to trample on the fallen — an office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from 

him ! 
How have you sped ? We are wretched, sig- 

nor, as 
Your plots could make, and vengeance could 

desire us. 
And how feel you? 

Lor. As rocks. 

Mar. By thunder blasted : 

They feel not, but no less are shivered. Come, 



Foscari ; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
Till he himself shall brood in it alone. i 
Enter the DOGE. 
yac. Fos. My father ! 
Doge {embracing him). Jacopo ! my son 

— my son! 
yac. Fos. My father still! How long it is 
since I 
Have heard thee name my name — c»«rname ! 
Doge. My boy ! 

Couldst thou but know 

yack. Fos. I rarely, sir, have murmured. 

Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 

Mar. Doge, look there ! 

[She points to LOREDANO. 

Doge. I see the man — what mean'st thou ? 

Mar. Caution ! 

Lor. Being 

The virtue Ivhich this noble lady most 

May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 

Mar. Wretch ! 'tis no virtue, but the policy 

Of those who fain must deal perforce with 

vice: 
As such I recommend it, as I would 
To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 
Doge. Daughter, it is siiperfiuous ; I have 
long 
Known Loredano. 
Lor. You may know him better. 

Mar. Yes ; worse he could not. 
yac. Fos. Father, let not these 

Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — 

is it,- 
Indeed, our last of meetings ? 

Doge. You behold 

These white hairs ! 

yac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine 
Will never be so white. Embrace me, father ! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 
Look to my children — to your last child's 

children ; 
Let them be all to you which he was once, 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see them also ? 
Mar. No — not here, 

yac. Fos. They might behold their parent 

any where. 
Mar. I would that they beheld their father 
in 
A place which would not mingle fear with 
love, 



1 [If the two Foscari do nothing to defeat the 
machinations of their remorseless foe, Marina, the 
wife of the younger, at least revenges them, by let- 
ting loose the venom of her tongue upon their hate- 
ful oppressor, which she does without stint or 
measure; and in a strain of vehemence not inferior 
to that of the old queen Miirgaret in Richard the 
Third. — Jeffrey.l 



642 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act IV. 



To freeze their young blood in its natural cur- 
rent. 
They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not 

that 
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, 
I know his fate may one day be their heritage, 
But let it only be their heritage. 
And not their present fee. Their senses, 

though 
Alive to love, are yet awake to terror ; 
And these vile damps, too, and yon thick 

gree?i \\'ave 
Which floats above the place where we now 

stand — 
A cell so far below the water's level, 
Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
Might strike them : this is not their atmos- 
phere. 
However you — and you — and, most of all, 
As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano I 
May breathe it without prejudice. 

Jac. Fos. I have not 

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 
Doge. Not so : they shall await you in my 

chamber. 
Jac. Fos. And must I leave them — allf 
Lor. You must. 

yac. Fos. Not one ? 

Lor. They are the state's. 
Mar. I thought they had been mine. 

Lor. They are, in all maternal things. 
Mar. _ That is, 

In all things painful. If they're sick, they will 
Be left to me to tend them ; should they die. 
To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
They live, they'll make you soldiers' senators, 
Slaves, exiles — v^hai you will; or if they are 
Females with portions, brides and bribes for 

nobles ! 
Behold the state's care for its sons and 
mothers ! 
Zor. The hour approaches, and the wind 

is fair. 
Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where 
the genial wind 
Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom ? 

Lor. 'Twas so 

When I came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shot of the " Riva di Schiavoni." 
Jac. Fos. Father 1 I pray you to precede 
me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 
Doge. Be firm, my son ! 
Jac. Fos. I will do my endeavor. 

Mar. Farewell! at least to this detested 
dungeon. 
And him to whose good offices you owe 
In part your past imprisonment. 

Lor. And present 

Liberation. 

Doge. He speaks truth. 



yac. Fos. No doubt ! but 'tis 

Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe 

him. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to 

change them. 
But I reproach not. 

Lor. The time narrows, signor. 

yac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so linger- 
ingly 
To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
That every step I take, even from this cell, 
Is one away from Venice, I look back 

Even on these dull damp walls, and 

Doge. Boy ! no tears. 

Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not on 
the rack 
To shame him, and they cannot shame him 

now. 
They will relieve his heart — that too kind 

heart — 
And I will find an hour to wipe away 
Those tears, or add my own. I could weep 

now. 
But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 
Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 

Lor. {to the Familiar). The torch, there! 
Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre, 
With Loredano mourning like an heir. 

Doge. My son, you are feeble; take this 

hand. 
yac. Fos. Alas ! 
Must youth support itself on age, and I 
Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 
Lor. Take mine. 

Mar. Touch it not, Foscari ; 'twill sting 
you. Signor, 
Stand off! be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are 

plunged. 
No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave 

you; 
It could not save, but will support you ever. 

\_Exeunt, 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter LOREDANO and Barbarigo. 

Bar. And have you confidence in such a 
project ? 

Lor. I have. 

Bar. 'Tis hard upon his years. 

Lor. Say rather 

Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 

Bar. 'Twill break his heart. 

Lor. Age has no heart to break. 

He has seen his son's half-broken, and, excep>t 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Swerved. 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



643 



Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, 
never ; 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
Had nought to envy him within. Where is he ? 

Lor. In his own portion of the palace, 
with 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 

Bar. Bidding farewell. 

Lor. A last. As soon he shall 

Bid to his dukedom. 

Bar. When embarks the son ? 

Lor. Forthwith — when this long leave is 
taken. 'Tis 
Time to admonish them again. 

Bar. Forbear ; 

Retrench not from their moments. 

Lor. Not I, now 

We have higher business for our own. This 

day 
Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign. 
As the first of his son's last banishment. 
And that is vengeance. 

Bar. In my mind, too deep. 

Lor. 'Tis moderate — not even life for life, 
the rule 
Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 

Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly ? 

Lor. Doubtless. 

Bar. And did not this shake your suspi- 
cion ? 

Lor. No. 

Bar. But if this deposition should take 
place 
By our united influence in the Council, 
It must be done with all the deference 
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 

Lor. As much of ceremony as you will. 
So that the thing be done. You may, for 

aught 
I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
(Like Barbarossa to the Pope,) to beg him 
To liave the courtesy to abdicate. 

Bar. What, if he will not ? 

Lor. We'll elect another. 

And make him null. 

Bar. But will the laws uphold us ? 

Lor. What laws ? — " The Ten" are laws ; 
and if they were not, 
I will be legislator in this business. 

Bar. At your own peril ? 

Lor. There is none, I tell you, 

Our powders are such. 

Bar. But he has twice already 

Solicited permission to retire. 
And twice it was refused. 

Lor. The better reason 

To grant it the third time. 

Bar. Unasked ? 

Lor. It shows 

The impression of his former instances : 



If they were from his heart, he may be thank- 
ful : 
If not, 'twill punish his hypocrisy. 
Come, they are met by this time ; let us join 

them, 
And be thou fixed in purpose for this once. 
I have prepared such arguments as will not 
Fail to move them, and to remove him : since 
Their thoughts, their objects, have been 

sounded, do not 
You, with your wonted scruples, teach us 

pause, 
And all will prosper. 

Bar. Could I but be certain 

This is no prelude to such persecution 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support you. 

Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 

His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as he can drag them : 'tis his throne 
Alone is aimed at. 

Bar. But discarded princes 

Are seldom long of life. 

Lor. And men of eighty 

More seldom still. 

Bar. And why not wait these few years ? 

Lor. Because we have waited long enough, 

and he 

Lived longer than enough. Hence ! in to 

council I 

{Exeunt Loredano ajid Barbarigo. 

Enter MEMMO and a Senator. 

Sen. A summons to " the Ten ! " Why so ? 

Afem. " The Ten" 

Alone can answer ; they are rarely wont 
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are sum- 
moned — 
That is enough. 

Sen. For them, but not for us ; 

I would know why. 

Mem. You will know why anon. 

If you obey; and if not, you no less 
Will know why you should have obeyed. 

Sen. I mean not 

To oppose them, but 

Mem. In Venice " but" 's a traitor. 

But me no " buts," unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

Sen. I am silent. 

Mem. Why 

Thus hesitate ? " The Ten" have called in 

aid 
Of their deliberation five and twenty 
Patricians of the senate — you are one, 
And I another ; and it seems to me 
Both honored by the choice or chance which 

leads us 
To mingle with a body so august. 

SeJi. Most true. I say no more. 

Metn. As we hope, Signoi; 



644 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act IV. 



And all may honestly, (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may,) one day hope to be 
Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to 
Be thus admitted, though as novices. 
To view the mysteries. 

Sen. Let us view them : they, 

No doubt, are worth it. 

Mem. Being worth our lives 

If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
Something, at least to you or me. 

Sen. I sought not 

A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
I shall fulfil my office. 

Mon. Let us not 

3e latest in obeying " the Ten's" summons. 

Se7t. All ar'i not met, but I am of your 
thought 
So far — let's in. 

Mem. The earliest are most welcome 

in earnest councils — we will not be least so. 

\_Exeiint. 

Enter the DOGE, JACOPO FOSCARI, and 
Marina. 

Jac. Fos. Ah, father! though I must and 
will depart, 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
That I once more return unto my home, 
Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
A point of time, as beacon to my heart. 
With any penalty annexed they please. 
But let me still return. 

Doge. Son Jacopo, 

Go and obey our country's will : 'ds not 
For us to look beyond. 

Jac. Fos. But still I must 

Look back. I pray you think of me. 

Doge. Alas ! 

You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
The exile of the disinterred ashes 
Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth. 
And their desponding shades came flitting 

round 
To impede the act, I must no less obey 
A duty, paramount to every duty. 

Mar. My husband! let us on: this but 
prolongs 
Our sorrow. 

Jac. Fos. But we are not summoned yet ; 
The galley's sails are not unfurled: — who 

knows ? 
The wind may change. 

Mar. And if it do, it will not 

Change their hearts, or your lot : the galley's 

oar 
Will quickly clear the harbor. 

Jac. Fos. O, ye elements ! 

Where are your storms ? 



Mar. In human breasts. Alas! 

Will nothing calm you ? 

Jac. Fos. Never yet did mariner 

Put up to patron saint such prayers for pros- 
perous 
And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 
Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 
Ye love not with more holy love than I 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves. 
And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempt-st^ 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore, 
A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
Where I mav mingle with the sands which 

skirt 
The land I love, and never shall see more ! 

Mar. And wish you this with ?ne beside 
you ? 

Jac. Fos. No — 
No — not for thee, too good, too kind ! May'st 

thou 
Live long to be a mother to those children 
Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives 
Of such support ! But for myself alone. 
May all the winds of heaven howl down the 

Gulf, 
And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 
Appafed, turn their despairing eyes on me, 
As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 
Cast me out from amongst them, as an offer- 
ing 
To appease the waves. The billow which de- 
stroys me 
Will be more merciful than man, and bear me, 
Dead, but still bear me to a native grave. 
From fishers' hands upon the desolate strand. 
Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er re- 
ceived 
One lacerated like the heart which then 
Will be — But wherefore breaks it not ? why 
live I ? 

Afar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to 
master 
Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
A sufferer, but not a loud one : why, 
What is this to the things thou hast borne in 

silence — 
Imprisonment and actual torture ? 

Jac. Fos. Double, 

Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right, 
It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 

Doge. Would 

It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast it. 

Jac. Fos. Forgive 

Doge. What ? 

Jac. Fos. My poor mother, for my birth, 
And me for having lived, and you yourself 
(As I forgive you), for the gift of life, 
Which you bestowed upon me as my sire. 

Afar. What hast thou done ? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot charge 

My memory with much save sorrow : but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCART. 



645 



Chastened and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A hke hereafter ! 

Mar. ■ Fear not : thafs reserved 

For your oppressors. 

Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 

Mar. Hope not? 

Jac. Fos. I cannot wish them a// they have 
inflicted. 

Mar. All! the consummate fiends! A 
thousand fold 
May the worm which ne'er dieth feed upon 
them ! 

Jac. Fos. They may repent. 

Mar. And if they do, Heaven will not 
Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

E7tter an Officer and Guards. 

Offi. Signor! the boat is at the shore — 
the wind 
Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 
Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once 
more, father, 
Your hand ! 

Doge. Take it. Alas! how thine own 

trembles ! 
Jac. Fos. No — you mistake; 'tis yours 
that shakes, my father. 
Farewell ! 
Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 
Jac. Fos. No — nothing. 

[To the Officer. 
Lend me your arm, good signor. 

Offi. You turn pale — 

L«t me support you — paler — ho ! some aid 

there ! 
Some water ! 
Mar. Ah, he is dying ! 

Jac. Fos. Now, I'm ready — 

My eyes swim strangely — where's the door? 
Mar. Away ! 

Let me support him — my best love! Oh, 

God! 
How faintly beats this heart — this pulse! 

Jac. Fos. The light ! 

Is it the light ? — I am faint. 

\Officer presents him with tvater. 
Offi. He will be better, 

Perhaps, in the air. 

Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Father — wife — 
Your hands ! 

Alar. There's death in that damp clammy 
grasp. 
Oh, God ! — My Foscari, how fare you? 
Jac. Fos. Well ! 

[He dies. 
Offi. He's gone ! 
Doge. He's free. 

Afar. No — no, he is not dead ; 

There must be life yet in that heart — he 
could not 



Thus leave me. 
Doge. Daughter ! 

Afar. Hold thy peace, old man! 

I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
Oh, Foscari ! 

Offi. We must remove the body. 

Aiar. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! 
your base office 
Ends with his life, and goes not beyond 

murder. 
Even by your murderous laws. Leave his 

remains 
To those who know to honor them. 

Offi. I must 

Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 
Doge. Inform the signory, from me, the 
Doge, 
They have no further power upon those ashes : 
While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject — 
Now he is mine — my broken-hearted bov ! 

{Exit Officer. 

Alar. And I must live ! 

Doge. Your children live, Marina. 

Alar. My children ! true — they live, and I 

must live 

To bring them up to serve the state, and die 

As died their father. Oh! what best of 

blessings 
Were barreneness in Venice ! Would my 

mother 
Had been so ! 
Doge. My unhappy children ! 

Alar. What! 

You feel it then at last— j^??//— Where is now 
The stoic of the state ? 

Doge {throwing himself down by the body). 

Here! 
Alar. Ay, weep on ! 

I thought you had no tears — you hoarded 

them 
Until they are useless; but weep on! he 

never 
Shall weep more— never, never more. 

Enter LOREDANO aiid Barbarigo. 
Lor. What's here ? 

Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead I 
Avaunt ! 
Incarnate Lucifer! 'tis holy ground. 
A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of tor- 
ment ! 
Bar. Lady, we knew not of this sad event. 
But passed here merely on our path from 
council. 
Mar. Pass on. 

Lor. We sought the Doge. 

Mar. {pointing to the Doge, who is still on 
the ground by his son's body) . He's busy, 
look, 
About the business jt?^ provided for him. 
Are ye content ? 



646 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



[act IV. 



Bar. We will not interrupt 

A parent's sorrows. 

Mar. No, ye only make them, 

Then leave them. 

Doge {risitig). Sirs, I am ready. 

Bar. No — not now. 

Lor. Yet 'twas important. 

Doge. If 'twas so, I can 

Only repeat — I am ready. 

Bar, It shall not be 

Just now, though Venice tottered o'er the 

deep 
Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 

Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which 
you bring 
Are evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
Can touch me more than him thou look'st on 

there ; 
If they be good, say on; you need not fear 
That they can comfort me. 

Bar. I would they could ! 

Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Loredano. 
He understands me. 

Mar. Ah ! I thought it would be so. 

Doge. What mean you ? 

Mar. Lo ! there is the blood beginning 
To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 
\^To Lo RED A NO. 
Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
How death itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 

Doge. My child 1 this is a phantasy of 
grief. 
Bear hence the body. \To his attendants'^ 

Signors, if it please you. 
Within an hour I'll hear you. 

\Exeunt DoCiE, MARINA, and attendants 
with the body. Manent LOREDANO and 
Barbarigo. 

Bar. He must not 

Be troubled now. 

Lor. He said himself that nought 

Could give him trouble further. 

Bar. These are words. 

But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
Upon it barbarous. 

Lor. Sorrow preys upon 

Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions of the other world 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

Bar. And therefore 

You would deprive this old man of all busi- 
ness ? 

Lor. The thing's decreed. The Giunta and 
" the Ten" 
Have made it law — who shall oppose that 
law? 

Bar. Humanity ! 

Lor. Because his son is dead ? 

Bar, And yet unburied. 

Lor, Had we known this when 



The act was passing, it might have suspended 
Its passage, but impedes it not — once past. 

Bar. I'll not consent. 

Lor. You have consented to 

All that's essential — leave the rest to me. 

Bar, Why press his abdication now ? 

Lor. The feelings 

Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public benefit ; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-morrow for a natural accident. 

Bar. You have a son. 

Lor. I have — and had a father. 

Bar. Still so inexorable ? 

Lor. Still. 

Bar. But let him 

Inter his son before we press upon him 
This edict. 

Lor. Let him call up into life 

My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, be, or appear to be. 
Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal ; he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons — and he had four — are dead, with- 
out 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

Bar And art thou sure 

He dealt in such ? 

Lor. Most sure. 

Bar. And yet he seenfis 

All openness. 

Lor. And so he seemed not long 

Ago to Carmagnuola. 

^Bar. The attainted 

And foreign traitor ? 

Lor. Even so : when he. 

After the very night in which " the Ten " 
( Joined with the Doge) decided his destruc- 
tion, 
Met witli the great Duke at daybreak with a 

jest. 
Demanding whether he should augur him 
" The good day or good night ? " his Doge- 

s lip answered, 
" That he in truth had passed a night of vigil, 
"In which (he added with a gracious smile), 
" There often has been question about you."i 
'Twas true; the question was the death re- 
solved 
Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died , 
And the old Doge, who knew him doomed, 

smiled on him 
With deadly cozenage, eight long months 
before-hand — 

^ An historical fact. See Darn, torn. u. 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



647 



Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 

Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmag- 

nuola 
Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his breth- 
ren — 
I never smiled on them. 

Bar. Was Carmagnuola 

Your friend ? 

Lor. He was the safeguard of the city. 

In early life its foe, but in his manhood, 
Its saviour first, then victim. 

Bar. Ah ! that seems 

The penahy of saving cities. He 
Whom we now act against not only saved 
Our own, but added others to her sway. 

Lor. The Romans (and we ape them) 
gave a crown 
To him who took a city ; and they gave 
A crown to him who saved a citizen 
In battle : the rewards are equal. Now, 
If we should measure forth the cities taken 
By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
Destroyed by him, or through him, the 

account 
Were fearfully against him, although narrowed 
To private havoc, such as between him 
And my dead father. 

Bar. Are you then thus fixed ? 

Lor. Why, what should change me ! 

Bar. That which changes me. 

But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A feud. But when all is accomplished, when 
The old man is deposed, his name degraded, 
His sons all dead, his family depressed. 
And you and yours triumphant, shall you 
sleep ? 

Lor. More soundly. 

Bar. That's an error, and you'll find it 

Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

Lor. They sleep not 

In their accelerated graves, nor will 
Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
Stalk frowning round my couch, and, point- 
ing towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 

Bar. Fancy's distemperature 1 There is no 
passion 
VIore spectral or fantastical than Hate ; 
Mot even its opposite, Love, so peoples air 
With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 

Enter an Officer. 

Lor. Where go you, sirrah ? 

Offi. By the ducal order 

To forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interment. 

Bar. Their 

Vault has been often opened of late years. 

Lor. 'Twill be full soon, and may be closed 
for ever. 

Offi. May I pass on ? 

Lor, You may. 



Bar. How bears the Doge 

This last calamity ? 

Offi. With desperate firmness. 

In presence of another he says little. 
Hut I perceive his lips move now and then ; 
And once or twice I heard him, from the ad- 
joining 
Apartment mutter forth the words — "My 

son ! " 
Scarce audibly. I must proceed, {^lixit Officer. 

Bar. This stroke 

Will move all Venice in his favor. 

Lor. Right ! 

We must be speedy : let us call together 
The delegates appointed to convey 
The council's resolution. 

Bar. I protest 

Against it at this moment. 

Lor. As you please — 

I'll take their voices on it ne'ertheless. 
And see whose most may sway them, yours 
or mine. 

[Exeunt Barbarigo and Loredano. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — The Doge's Apartment. 
The Doge and Attendants. 

Att. My lord, the deputation is in waiting ; 

But add, that if another hour would better 

Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 

Doge. Tome all hours are like. Let- tht-m 

approach. \Exit Attendant. 

An Officer. Prince! I have done your 

bidding. 
Doge. What command ? 

Offi. A melancholy one — to call the at- 
tendance 

Of 

Doge. True — true — true: I crave your 
pardon. I 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
To overtake me. , 

Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of the 
Signory and the Chief of the Ten. 

Noblemen, your pleasure ! 

Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the 
Council doth condole 
With the Doge on his late and private grief. 

Doge. No more — no more of that. 

Chief of the Ten. Will not the Duke 

Accept the homage of respect ? 

Doge. I do 

Accept it as 'tis given — proceed. 

Chief of the Ten. '' The Ten," 

With a selected giunta from the senate 



648 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



[act v. 



Of twenty-five of the best born patricians, 
Having deliberated on tlie state 
Of the repubUc, and tlie o'erwhelming cares 
Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so long devoted to your country. 
Have judged it fitting, with all reverence. 
Now to solicit from your wisdom (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this), 
The resignation of the ducal ring. 
Which you have worn so long and venerably : 
And to prove that they aie not ungrateful, nor 
Cold to your years and services, they add 
An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
Ducats to make retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 

Doge Did I hear rightly ? 

Chief of the Ten. Need I say again ? 

Doge. No. — Have you done ? 

Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty- 
four 
Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 

Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Will now retire. 

Doge. Stay ! Four and twenty hours 

Will alter nothing which I have to say. 

Chief of the Ten. Speak ! 

Doge. When I twice before reiterated 

My wish to abdicate, it was refused me : 
And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
An oath from me that I would never more 
Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
In full exertion of the functions, which 
My country called me here to exercise. 
According to my honor and my conscience — 
I cannot break my oath. 

Chief of the Ten. Reduce us not 

To the alternative of a decree, 
Instead of your compliance. 

Doge. Providence 

Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; 
But ye have no right to reproach my length 
Of days, since every hour has been the coun- 
try's. 
I am ready to lay down my hfe for her, 
As I have laid down dearer things than life : 
But for my dignity — I hold it of 
The whole republic ; when the ^^«^ra/ will 
Is manifest, then you shall all be answered. 

Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an 
answer, but it cannot 
Avail you aught. 

Doge. I can submit to all things, 

But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
What you decree — decree. 

Chief of the Ten. With this, then, must we 
Return to those who sent us ? 

Doge. You have heard me. 

Chief of the Ten. With all due reverence 
we retire. {Exeunt the Deputation, etc. 

Enter an Attendant, 



Att. My lord, 

The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
Doge. My time is hers. 

Enter MARINA. 

Mar. My lord, if I intrude — 

Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 

Doge. Alone, 

Alone, come all the world around me, I 
Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. * 

Mar. We will, and for the sake of those 
who are. 
Endeavor Oh my husband ! 

Doge. Give it way ; 

I cannot comfort thee. 

Mar. He might have lived, 

So formed for gentle privacy of life. 
So loving, so beloved ; the native of 
Another land, and who so blest and blessing 
As my poor B'oscari ? Nothing was wanting 
Unto his happiness and mine save not 
To be Venetian. 

Doge. Or a prince's son. 

Mar. Yes ; all things which conduce to 
other men's 
Imperfect happiness or high ambition. 
By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 
The country and the people whom he loved. 
The prince of whom he was the elder born, 
And 

Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 

Mar. How ? 

Doge. They have taken my son from me, 
and now aim 
At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resume the gewgaws ! 

Mar. Oh the tyrants ! 

In such an hour too ! 

Doge. 'Tis the fittest time ; 

An hour ago I should have felt it. 

Mar. And 

Will you not now resent it ? — Oh for ven- 
geance ! 
But he, who, had he been enough protected, 
Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
Cannot assist his father. 

Doge. Nor should do so 

Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 

Mar. They tortured from him. This 

May be pure patriotism. I am a woman : 
To me my husband and my children were 
Country and home. I 'loved him — how I 

loved him ! 
I have seen him pass through such an ordeal 

as 
The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he 

is gone. 
And I, who would have given my blood for 

him. 
Have nought to give but tears ! But could I 
compass 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



649 



The retribution of his wrongs ! — Well, well ; 
I have sons, who shall be men. 
Doge. Your grief distracts you. 

Mar. I thought I could have borne it, 
when I saw him 
Bowed down by such oppression ; yes, I 

thought 
That I would rather look upon his corse 
Than his prolonged captivity : — I am pun- 
ished 
♦For that thought now. Would I were in his 
grave ! 
Doge. I must look on him once more. 
Mar. Come with me I 

Doge. Is he 

Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 

Doge. And he is in his shroud 1 
Alar. Come, come, old man ! 

{Exeunt the DOGE and MARINA. 

Enter Barbarigo and LOREDANO. 

Bar. {to an Attendant). Where is the 

Doge ? 
Att. This instant retired hence 

With the illustrious lady, his son's widow. 
Lor. Where ? 

Att. To the chamber where the body lies. 
Bar. Let us return, then. 
Lor. You forget, you cannot. 

We have the implicit order of the Giunta 
To await their coming here, and join them in 
Their office : they'll be here soon after us. 
Bar. And will they press their answer on 

the Doge ? 
Lor. 'Twas his own wish that all should be 
done promptly. 
He answered quickly, and must so be an- 
swered ; 
His dignity is looked to, his estate 
Cared for — what would he more ? 

Bar. Die in his robes : 

He could not have lived long; but I have 

done 
My best to save his honors, and opposed 
This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
Why would the general vote compel me 
hither ? 
Lor. 'Twas fit that some one of such differ- 
ent thoughts 
From ours should be a witness, lest false 

tongues 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 
Bar. And not less, I must needs think, for 
the sake 
Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
A very Ovid in the art oi hating ; 
'Tis thus (although a secondary object, 
Yet hate has microscopic eyes), to you 
1 owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 



This undesired association in 
Your Giunta's duties. 

Lor. How ! — my Giunta ! 

Bar. Yours / 

They speak your language, watch your nod, 

approve 
Your plans, and do your work. Are they not 
yours ? 
Lor. You talk unwarily. 'Twere best they 
hear not 
This from you. 

Bar. Oh ! they'll hear as much one day 
From louder tongues than mine ; they have 

gone beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power : and when 
This happens in the most contemned and 

abject 
States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 
Lor. You talk but idly. 
Bar. That remains for proof. 

Here come our colleagues. 

Enter the Deputation as before. 

Chief of the Tefi. ' Is the Duke aware 

We seek his presence ? 

Att. He shall be informed. 

[Exit Attendant. 

Bar. The Duke is with his son. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, 

We will remit him till the rites are over. 
Let us return. 'Tis time enough to-morrow. 

Lor. {aside to Bar.). Now the rich man's 

hell-fire upon your tongue, 

Unquenched, unquenchable ! I'll have it torn 

From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 

Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! 

Sage signors, 
I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the others. 

Bar. But be human ! 

Lor. See, the Duke comes ! 

E?iter the DOGE. 

Doge. I have obeyed your summons. 

Chief of the Ten. We come once more to 
urge our past request. 

Doge. And I to answer. 

Chief of the Ten. What? 

Doge. My only answer. 

You have heard it. 

Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last 
decree. 
Definitive and absolute ! 

Doge. To the point — 

To the point 1 I know of old the forms of 

office, 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 

Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge ; 
you are released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mentioned in our former congress. 



650 



THE TWO rose ART. 



[act v. 



Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

Doge. That last clause, 

I am proud to say, would not enrich the treas- 
ury. 

Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 

Lor. Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old 
age 
Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
Of the republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
His own high dignity before his country; 
But tliis life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last fnoments to her. 
But the decree being rendered, I obey.i 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the 
three days named extended. 
We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

Doge. Ncit eight hours, signor. 

Nor even eight minutes — There's the ducal 
ring, [ Taking off his ring and cap. 

And there the ducal diadem. And so 
Tht Adriatic's free to wed another. 

Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth so 
quickly. 

Doge. I am old, sir, 

And even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Methinks I see amongst 

you 
A face I know not — Senator! your name. 
You, by your garb. Chief of the Forty ! 

Mem. Signor, 

I am the son of Marco Memmo. 

Doge. Ah ! 

Your father was my friend. — But sons and fa- 
thers / — 
What, ho ! my servants there ! 

Atten. My prince ! 

Doge. No prince — 

There are the princes of the prince ! [Point- 
ing to the Tens Deputation^ — Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 

So rashly ? 'twill give scandal. 

Doge. Answer that ; 

[ To the Ten. 

It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves : 

[ To the Servants. 

There is one burden which I beg you bear 

With care, although 'tis past all further 

harm — 
But I will look to that myself. 

Bar. He means 

The body of his son. 

Doge. And call Marina, 

My daughter ! 



[MS. — " The act is passed — I will obey it."] 



Enter MARINA. 

Doge. Get thee ready, we must mourn 

Elsewhere. 
Mar. And everywhere. 
Doge. True ; but in freedom, 

Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signers, you may depart : what would you 

more ? 
We are going: do you fear that we shall 

bear 
The palace with us ? Its old walls, ten times 
As old as I am, and I'm very old. 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
Such power I do believe there might exist 
In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
As you; but I curse not. Adieu, good sig- 
ners! 
May the next duke be better than the present. 
Lor. The present duke is Paschal Mali- 

piero. 
Doge. Not till I pass the threshold of these 

doors. 
Lor. Saint Mark's great bell is soon about 

to toll 
For his inauguration. 

Doge. Earth and heaven! 

Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
Live to hear this ! — the first doge who e'er 

heard 
Such sound for his successor : happier he. 
My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero — 
This insult at the least was spared him. 

Lor. What! 

Do you regret a traitor ? 

Doge. No — I merely 

Envy the dead. 

Chief of the Ten. -My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
By the private staircase, which conducts you 

towards 
The landing-place of the canal. 

Doge. No. I 

Will now descend the stairs by which I 

mounted 
To sovereignty — the Giants' Stairs, on whose 
Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
My services have called me up those steps. 
The malice of my foes will drive me down 

them. 
There five and thirty years ago was I 
Installed, and traversed these same halls, from 

which 
I never thought to be divorced except 
A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for 

them — 
But not pushed hence by fellow-citizens. 



SCENE 1.] 



THE TWO FOSCARl 



651 



But come ; my son and I will go together — 
He to his grave, and I to pray for mine. 

Chief of the Ten. What ! thus in public ? 

Doge. I was publicly 

Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina ! art thou willing ? 

Alar. Here's my arm ! 

Doge. And here my staff : thus propped 
will I go forth. 

Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the 
people will perceive it. 

Doge. The people! — There's no people, 
you well know it. 
Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 
May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor 

curse you. 
Save with their hearts and eyes. 

Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion. 
Else 

Doge. You have reason. I have spoken 
much 
More than my wont : it is a foible which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 
Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
Farewell, sirs ! 

Bar. You shall not depart without 

An escort fitting past and present rank. 
We will accompany, with due respect. 
The Doge unto his private palace. Say! 
My brethren, will we not ? 

Different voices. Ay ! — Ay ! 

Doge. You shall not 

Stir — in my train, at least. I entered here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the same portals, but as citizen. 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults. 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
Pomp is for princes — I aTn none/ — That's 

false, 
I am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 

Lor. Hark 1 

[ The great bell of Saitit Mark's tolls. 

Bar. The bell ! 

Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's, which tolls 
for the election 
Of Malipiero. 

Doge. Well I recognize 

The sound ! I heard it once, but once before. 
And that is five and thirty years ago ; 
Even then I was not young. 

Bar. Sit down, my lord ! 

You tremble. 

Doge. 'Tis the knell of my poor boy ! 

My heart aches bitterly. 

Bar. I pray you sit. 

Doge. No ; my seat here has been a throne 
till now. 
Marina ! let us go. 



Mar. Most readily. 

Doge {walks a few steps, then stops). I feel 
athirst — will no one bring me here 
A cup of water ? 

Bar. I 

Mar. And I 

Lor. And I 

[ The Doge takes a goblet from the hand of 

LOREDANO. 

Doge. I take yours, Loredano, fiom the 
hand 
Most fit for such an hour as this.i 
Lor. Why so ? 

Doge. 'Tis said that our Venetian crystal 
has 
Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
To burst, if aught of venom touches it. 
You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 
Lor. Well, sir! 

Doge. Then it is false, or you are true. 

For my own part, I credit neither ; 'tis 
An idle legend. 

Mar. You talk wildly, and 

Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
Depart. Ah ! now you look as looked my 
husband ! 
Bar. He sinks I — support him ! — quick — 

a chair — support him ! 
Doge. The bell tolls on ! — let's hence — 

my brain's on fire ! 
Bar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 
Doge. No I 

A sovereign should die standing. My poor 

boy! 
Off with your arms 1 — That belli 

[ The Doge drops down and dies? 
Mar. My God ! My God ! 

Bar. {to Lor ^. Behold! your work's com- 
pleted ! 
Chief of the Ten. Is there then 

No aid ? Call in assistance ! 
Att. 'Tis all over. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his 
obsequies 
Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 
His rank and his devotion to the duties 
Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
To do himself and them full justice. Breth- 
ren, 
Say, shall it not be so ? 

Bar. He has not had 

The misery to die a subject where 
He reigned : then let his funeral rites be 
princely.3 



1 [MS.— 
" I take yours, Loredano — 'tis the draught 
Most fitting such an hour as this."] 
- [The death of the elder Foscari took place not 
at the palace, but in his own house; not immedi- 
ately on his descent from the Giants' Stairs, but 
five days afterwards. — S medley.] 

3 [By a decree of the Council, the trappings of 



652 



THE TWO ^FQSCARI. 



Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then ? 
All, except Lor., answer. Yes. 

Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with 

him! 
Mar. Signers, your pardon : this is 
mockery. 
Juggle no more with that poor remnant, 

which, 
A moment since while yet it had a soul, 
(A soul by whom you have increased your 

empire, 
And made your power as proud as was his 

glory.) 

You banished from his palace, and tore down 

From his high place, with such relentless 
coldness ; 

And now, when he can neither know these 
honors. 

Nor would accept them if he could, you, 
signors, 

Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp. 

To make a pageant over what you tram- 
pled. 

A princely funeral will be your reproach. 

And not his honor. 

Chief of the Ten. Lady, we revoke not 

Our purposes so readily. 

Mar. I know it. 

As far as touches torturing the living, 

I thought the dead had been beyond even 
you, 

Though (some, no doubt) consigned to 
powers which may 

Resemble that you exercise on earth. 

Leave him to me ; you would have done so for 

His dregs of life, which you have kindly 
shortened : 

It is my last of duties, and may prove 

A dreary comfort in my desolation. 

Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead. 

And the apparel of the grave. 

Chief of the Te??. Do you 

Pretend still to this office ? 
Afar. I do, signer. 

Though his possessions have been all con- 
sumed 

In the state's service, I have still my dowry, 

Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 

And those of \^She stops loith agitation. 

Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your 

children. 
Mar. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank vou. 
Chief of the Ten. "We 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 

Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and fol- 
lowed 

Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 



supreme power of which the Doge had divested 
himself while living, were restored to him when 
dead; and he was interred, with ducal magnificence, 
in the church of the Minorites, the new Doge attend- 
ing as a mourner. — See Daru.~\ 



As Doge, but simply as a senator. 

Mar. I have heard of murderers, who have 
interred 
Their victims; but ne'er heard until this 

hour. 
Of so much splendor in hypocrisy 
O'er those they slew.i 1 have heard of 

widow's tears — 
Alas! I have shed some — always thanks to 

you! 
I've heard of heirs in sables — you have left 

none 
To the deceased, so you would act the part 
Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! as 

one day, 
I trust. Heaven's will be done too! 

Chief of the Ten. Know, you, lady, 

To whom ye speak, and perils of such 
speech ? 
Mar. I know the former better than your- 
selves ; 
The latter — like yourselves ; and can face 

both. 
Wish you more funerals ? 

Bar. Heed not her rash words ; 

Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 

Ch -ef of the Ten. We will not note them 

down. 
Bar. (turning to Lor. who is writing upon 
his tablets). What art thou writing. 

With such an earnest brow, upon thy tab- 
lets ? 
Lor. [pointing to the Doge's body). That he 

has paid me ! '^ 
Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe 

you ? 
Lor. A long and just one ; Nature's debt 
and mine. \_Curtain falls. 



1 The Venetians appear to have had a particular 
turn for breaking the hearts of their Doges. The 
following is anothef instance of the kind in the 
Doge Marco liarbarigo: he was succeeded by his 
brother Agostino Barbarigo, whose chief merit is 
here mentioned. — " Le doge, blesse de trouver 
constamment un contradicteur et un censeur si 
amer dans son frere, lui dit un jour en plein C(mseil : 
' Messire Augustin, vous faites tout votre possible 
pour hater ma mort; vous vous flattez de me suc- 
ceder, mais, si les autres vous connaissent aussi- 
bien que je vous connais, ils n'auront garde de vous 
elire.' La-dessus il se leva, ^mu de colere, rentra 
dans son appartement, et mourut quelques jours 
apres. Ce frere, contre lequel il s'etait emporte, 
ful precise ment le successeur qu'on lui donna. 
C'etait un merite dont on aimait ^ tenir compte; 
surtout k un parent, de s'etre mis en opposition 
avec le chef de la republique." — Darn, Hist, de 
Venise, vol. ii. p. 533. 

2 " U ha pagatay An historical fact. See Hist, 
de Venise, par P. Daru, t. ii. p. 411. — [Here the 
original MS. ends. The two lines which follow, 
were added by Mr. Gifford. In the margin of the 
MS., Byron has written, — " If the last line should 
appear obscure to those who do not recollect the 



CAIN. 653 



historical fact mentioned in the first act of Lore- 
dai.o's inscription in his book, of ' Doge Foscari, 
debtor for the deaths of my father and uncle,' you 
mny add the following lines to the conclusion of the 
last act: — 



Chief of the Ten. For what has he repaid thee? 
Lor. For my father's 

And father's brother's death — by his son's and own ! 

Ask GifTord about this."] 



[Considered as poems, we confess that " Sardanapalus " and " The Two Foscari " appear to us to be 
rather heavy, verbose, and inelegant — deficient in the passion and energy which belongs to Lord Byron's 
other writings — and still more in the richness of imagery, the originality of tiiought, and the sweetness 
of versification for wliich he used to be distinguished. They are for tlie most part solemn, prolix, and 
ostentatious — lengthened out by large preparations for catastrophes that never arrive, and tantalizing us 
with slight specimens and glimpses of a higher interest scattered thinly up and down many weary pages 
of pompous declamation. Along with the concentrated pathos and homestruck sentiments of his former 
poetry, the noble author seems also — we cannot imagine why — to have discarded the spirited and melo- 
dious versification in which they were embodied, and to have formed to himself a measure equally remote 
from the spring and vigor of his former compositions, and from the softness and inflexibility of the arcient 
masters of the drama. There are some sweet lines, and many of great weight and energy; but the gen- 
eral march of the verse is cumbrous and unmusical. His lines do not vibrate like polished lances, at 
once stroffg and light, in the hands of his persons, but are wielded like clumsy batons in a bloodless 
affray. Instead of the graceful familiarity and idiomatical melodies of Shakspeare, it is apt, too, to fall 
into clumsy prose, in its approaches to the easy and colloquial style; and, in the loftier passages, is 
occasionally deformed by low and common images that harmonize but ill with the general solemnity of 
the diction. — Jeffrey.^ 

♦ .0 « ♦ 



CAIN: A MYSTERY. 

" Now the serpent was more subtile than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made." 
Gen, ch. iii. ver. i. 



[*' Cain" was begun at Ravenna, on the-i6th of July, 1821 — completed (in three acts, and without the 
chorus) on the gth of September — and published, in the same volume with " Sardanapalus" and " The 
Two Foscari," in December.] 

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART., 

THIS MYSTERY OF CAIN IS INSCRIBED, 
BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR.i 

1 Sir Walter Scott announced his acceptance of this dedication in the following letter to Mr. Murray: — 

" Edinburgh, 4th December, iS:^:. 

" My Dear Sir, — I accept, with feelings of great obligation, the flattering proposal of Lord Byron 10 
prefix my name to the very grand and tremendous drama of* Cain.' I may be partial to it, and you will 
allow 1 have cause; but I do not know that his Muse has ever taken so lofty a flight amid her fi)rnier 
soarings. He has certainly matched Milton on his own ground. Some part of the language is bold, and 
may shock one class of readers, whose line will be adopted by others out of affectation or envy. But 
then they must condemn the ' Paradise Lost,' if they have a mind to be consistent. The fiend-like rea- 
soning and bold blasphemy of the fiend and of his pupil lead exactly to the point which was to be expected, 
— the commission of the first murder, and the ruin and despair of the perpetrator. 

" I do not see how any one can accuse the author himself of Manicheism. The devil talks the lan- 
guage of that sect, doubtless; because, not being able to denv the existence of the Good Principle, he 
endeavors to exalt himself — the Evil Principle — to a seeming equality with the Good; but such argu- 
ments, in the mouth of such a being, can only b? used to deceive and to betray. Lord Byron might 



654 CAIN. 



PREFACE. 

The following scenes are entitled " A Mystery," in conformity with the ancient title annexed to dramas 
upon similar subjects, which were styled " Mysteries, or Moralities." The author has by no means 
taken the same liberties with his subject which were common formerly, as may be seen by any reader 
curious enough to refer to those very profane productions, whether in English, French, Italian, or 
Spanish. The author has endeavored to preserve the language adapted to his characters; and where it 
is (and this is but rarely) taken from actual Scyi/>ture, he has made as little alteration, even of words, 
as the rhythm would permit. The reader will recollect that the book of Genesis does not state that Eve 
was tempted by a demon, but by " the Serpent; " and that only because he was " the most subtile of all 
the beasts of the field." Whatever interpretation the Rabbins and the Fathers may have put upon this, 
I take the words as T find them, and reply, with Bishop Watson upon similar occasions, when the Fathers 
were quoted to him, as Moderator in the schools of Cambridge, " Behold the book! " — holding up the 
Scripture^ It is to be recollected, that my present subject has nothing to do with the Neiv Testament, 
to which no reference can be here made without anachronism. With the poems upon similar topics I 
have not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty, I have never read Milton; but I had read him so 
frequently before, that this may make little difference. Gesner's " Death of Abel" I have never read 
since I was eight years of age, at Aberdeen. The general impression of my recollection is delight; but 
of the contents I remember only that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and Abel's Thirza: in the following 
pages I have called them " Adah" and " Zillah, " the earliest female names which occur in Genesis; 
they were those of Lamech's wives: those of Cain and Abel are not called by their names. Whether, 
then, a coincidence of subject may have caused the same in expression, I know nothing, and care as 
little.2 

The reader will please to bear in mind (what few choose to recollect) , that there is no allusion to a 
future state in any of the books of Moses, nor indeed in the Old Testament. ^ For a reason for this 
extraordinary omission he may consult Warburton's " Divine Legation; " whether satisfactory or not, 

have made this more evident, by placing in the mouth of Adam, or of some good and protecting spirit, 
the reasons wliich render the existence of moral evil consistent with the general benevolence of the Deity. 
The great key to the mystery is, perhaps, the imperfection of our own faculties, which see and feel 
strongly the partial evils which press upon us, but know too little of the general system of the universe, 
to be aware how the existence of these is to be reconciled with the benevolence of the great Creator. 

" To drop these speculations, you have much occasion for some mighty spirit, like Lord Byron, to 
come down and trouble the waters; for, excepting 'The John Bull,'* you seem stagnating strangely in 
London. u Yours, my dear Sir, very truly, 

" To John Murray, Esq. " Walter Scott." 

1 [" I never troubled myself with answering any arguments which the opponents in the divinity 
schools brought against the Articles of the Church, nor ever admitted their authority as decisive of a 
difficulty; but I used on such occasions to say to them, holding up the New Test.ament in my hand: 
'En sacrum codicem! Here is the fountain of truth; why do you follow the streams derived from it by 
the sophistry, or polluted by the passions, of man? ' " — Bishop Watson's Life, vol. i. p. 63.] 

- [Here follows, in the original draft, — "I am prepared to be accused of Manicheism, or some other 
hard name ending in ism, which make a formidable figure and awful sound in the eyes and ears of those 
who would be as much puzzled to explain the terms so bandied about, as the liberal and pious indulgers 
in such epithets. Against such I can defend myself, or, if necessary, I can attack in turn."] 

3 [There are numerous passages dispersed throughout the Old Testament which import something 
more than " an allusion to a future state." In truth, the Old Testament abounds in phrases which imply 
the immortality of the soul, and which would be insignificant and hardly intelligible, but upon that sup- 
position. " Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit return unto God who gave 
it." — Eccl. xii. 7. " And many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to ever- 
lasting life, and some to shame: and they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; 
and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever." — Dan. x. 2. " I know that my 
Redeem'er liveih and that he shall stand in the latter davs upon the earth: and though after my skin 
worms shall destroy my bo ly, yet in my flesh shall I see God." — Job xix. 25. — Brit. Rev.} 



* [The pungent Sunday newspaper of that name had been lately established, and had excited aft 
immense sensation.] 



CAIN. 



655 



no better has yet been assigned. I have therefore supposed it new to Cain, without, I hope, any perver- 
sion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon 
the same subjects; but I have done what I could to restrain him within the bounds of spiritual politeness. 
If lie disclaims.having tempted Eve in the shape of the Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis 
h.-vs not the most distant allusion to any thing of the kind, but merely to the Serpent in his serpentine 
capacity. 

Note. — The reader will perceive that the author has partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, 
that the world had been destroyed several times before the creation of man. This speculation, derived 
from the different strata and the bones of enormous and unknown animals found in them, is not contrary 
to the Mosaic account, but rather confirms it; as no human bones have yet been discovered in those 
strata, although those of many known animals are found near the remains of the unknown. The assertion 
of Lucifer, that the pre-Adamite world was also peopled by rational beings much more intelligent than 
man, and proportionably powerful to the mammoth, etc. etc. is, of course, a poetical fiction to help him 
to make out his case. 

I ought to add, that there is a " tramelogedia " of Alfieri, called " Abele." — I have never read that, 
nor any other of the posthumous works of the writer, except his Life. 

Ravenna, September 20, 1821. 



MEN. 

Adam. 

Cain. 

Abel. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



SPIRITS. 

Angel of the Lord. 
Lucifer. 



WOMEN. 

Eve. 
Adah. 

ZiLLAH. 



ACT L 

Scene \.— The Land without Paradise.— 
Time, Sunrise. 

Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, 
offering a Sacrifice. 

Adam. God, the Eternal ! Infinite ! All- 
wise ! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Light on the waters with a word — all hail 1 
Jeljcvah, with returning light, all hail I 

Eve. God 1 who didst name the day, and 
separate 
Morning from night, till then divided never — 
Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 

Abel. God ! who didst call the elements into 
Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the 

day 
And night, and worlds which these illuminate, 
Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them. 
And love both them and thee — all hail ! ail 
hail ! 
Adah. God, the Eternal! Parent of all 
things ! 
Who didst create these best and beauteous 
beings, 



To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 
Let me love thee and them : — All hail! all 
hail! 
Zillah. Oh, God ! who loving, making, bless- 
ing all, 
' Yet didst permit the Serpent to creep in, 
I And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 
Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore 

art thou silent ? 
Cai?i. Why should I speak ? 
Adam. To pray.l 

Cain. Have ye not prayed ? 



1 ["Prayer," said Lord Byron, at Cephalonia, 
" does not consist in the act of kneeling, nor in re- 
peating certain words in a solemn manner. Devo- 
tion is the affection of the heart, and this I feel; for 
when I view the wonders of creation, I bow to the 
majesty of heaven ; and when I feel the enjoyment 
of life, health, and happiness, I feel grateful to God 
for having bestowed these upon me." — "All this is 
well," I said, " so far as it goes, but to be a Chris- 
tian you must go further." — " I read more of the 
Bible than you are aware," he said : " I have a Bible 
which my sister gave me, who is an excellent woman, 
and I read it very often." He went into his bed- 
room on saying this, and brought out a pocket 
Bible, finely bound, and showed it to me. — Ken- 
nedy's Conversations with Lord B., p. 135] 



656 



CAIN. 



[act I. 



Adam. We have, most fervently. 

Cam. And loudly : I 

Have heard you. 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Abel. Amen ! 

Adam. But thou, my eldest born, art silent 
still. 

Cain. 'Tis better I should be so. 

Adam. Wherefore so ? 

Cain. I have nought to ask. 
. Adam. Nor aught to thank for ? 

Cain. No. 

Adam. Dost thou not live ? 

Cain. Must I not die ? 

Eve. Alas ! 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall.i 

Adam. And we must gather it again. 
Oh, God ! why didst thou plant the tree of 
knowledge ? 

Cain. And wherefore plucked ye not the 
tree of life ? 
Ye might have then defied him. 

Adam. Oh ! my son, 

Blaspheme not : these are serpent's words. 

Cain. Why not ? 

The snake spoke truth : it was the tree of 

knowledge ; 
It was the tree of life : knowledge is good, 
And life is good ; and how can both be 
evil ? 

Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke, in 
sin. 
Before thy birth : let me not see renewed 
My misery in thine. I have repented. 
Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroyed his parents. 
Content thee with what is. Had we been so. 
Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my 
son! 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let us hence. 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is young, and yields us 

kindly 
Her fruits with little labor. 

Eve. Cain, my son. 

Behold thy father cheerful and resigned, 
And do as he doth. {Exeunt ADAM and Eve. 

Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 



' [This passage affords a key to the temper and 
frame of mind of Cain throughout the piece. He 
disdains the limited existence allotted to him; he 
has a rooted horror of death, attended with a ve- 
hement curiosity as to his nature; and he nourishes 
a sullen anger against his parents, to whose miscon- 
duct he ascribes his degraded state. Added to this, 
he has an insatiable thirst for knowledge beyond 
the bounds prescribed to mortality; and this part of 
the poem bears a strong resemblance to Manfred, 
whose counterpart, indeed, in the main points of 
character, Cain seems to be. — Campbell's Maga- 
zine.] 



Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon 
thy brow. 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal anger ? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou frown even on me ? 

Cain. No, Adah ! no ; 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I'm sick at heart; but it will pass. 
Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind; 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
I'll follow you anon. 

Adah. If not, I will 

Return to seek you here. 

Abel. The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother I 

{Exeunt ABEL, ZiLLAH, and ADAH. 

Cain, (solus). And this is 

Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? — 

because 
My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
What had / done in this ? — I was unborn : 
I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
To which that birth has brought me. Why 

did he 
Yield to the serpent and the woman? or. 
Yielding, why suffer? What was there in this ? 
The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew. 
The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
One answer to all questions, " 'Twas his will, 
And he is good." How know I that ? Because 
He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? 
I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
Whom have we here? — A shape like to the 

angels. 
Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 
Of spiritual essence : why do I quake? 
Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
W^hom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
Before the gates round which I linger oft. 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens which are my just inheritance. 
Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited waJAs 
And the immortal trees which overtop 
The cherubim-defended battlements? 
If I shrink not from these, the fire-armed an- 
gels, 
Why should I quail from him who now ap- 
proaches? 
Yet he seems mightier far than them, nor less 
Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 
Half of his immortality.- And is it 
So ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 
He Cometh. 



2 [Cain's description of the approach of Lucifer 
would have shown in the " Paradise Lost.'' There 
is something spiritually fine in this conception of the 
terror of presentiment of coming evil. —Jeffrey.] 



SCENE I.] 



CAm. 



657 



Enter LUCIFER. l 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

Cain. Spirit, who art thou ? 

Lucifer. Master of spirits. 

Cain. And being so, canst thou 

Leave them, and walk with dust ? 

Lucifer. I know the thoughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 

Cain. How ! 

You know my thoughts ? 

Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 

Worthy of thought ; — 'tis your immortal part 
Which speaks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part? 

This has not been revealed : the tree of life 
Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
Whilethatof knowledge,by my mother's haste. 
Was plucked too soon ; and all the fruit is 
death ! 



1 [Milton, with true tact and feeling, put no 
metaphysics into Satan's mouth. There is no 
querulousness, no sneaking doubts, no petty reason- 
ing in " the Archangel fallen." It is a fine, blunt, 
sublime, characteristic defiance, that reigns through- 
out, and animates his character; the spirit is still 
of celestial birth; and all the evil of his speech and 
act is utterly neutralized by the impossibility of 
viati's feeling any sympathy with it. The Satan of 
Milton is no half-human devil, with enough of earth 
about him to typify the malignant sceptic, and 
enough of heaven to throw a shade of sublimity on 
his very malignity. The Lucifer of Byron is neither 
a noble-fiend, nor yet a villain-fiend, — he does 
nothing, and he seems nothing — there is no poetry 
either of character or description about him — he is 
a poor, sneaking, talking devil — a most wretched 
metaphysician, without wit enough to save him even 
from the damnation of criticism — he speaks neither 
poetry nor common sense. Thomas Aquinas would 
have flogged him more for his bad logic than his 
unbelief — and St. Dunstan would have caught him 
by the nose ere the purblind fiend was aware. — 
Blacktvood. 

The impiety chargeable on this mystery consists 
mainly in this — that the purposeless and gratuitous 
blasphemies put into the mouth of Lucifer and Cain 
are left unrefuted, so that they appear introduced 
for their own sake, and the design of the writer 
seems to terminate in them. There is no attempt 
made to prevent their leaving the strongest possible 
impression on the reader's mind. On the contrary, 
the arguments, if such they can be called, levelled 
against the wisdom and goodness of the Creator are 
put forth with the utmost ingenuity. And it has 
been the noble poet's endeavor to palliate as much 
as possible the characters of the Evil Spirit and of 
the first Murderer; the former of whom is made an 
elegant, poetical, philosophical sentimentalist, a sort 
of Manfred, — the latter an ignorant, proud, and 
self-willed boy. Lucifer, too, is represented as deny- 
ing all share in the temptation of Eve, which he 
throws upon the serpent " in his serpentine capac- 
ity;" the author pleading, that he does so, only 
because the book of Genesis has not the most dis- 
tant allusion to any thing of the kind, and that a 
reference to the New Testament would be an 
anachronism. — Eel. Rev.} 



Lucifer. They have deceived thee; thou 
shalt live. 

Cain. I live, 

But live to die : and, living, see nothing 
To make death hateful, save an innate cling- 
ing. 
A loathsome, and yet all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 

Lucifer. Thou livest,and must live for ever : 
think not 
The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou art now. 

Cain. No less! and why 

No more ? 

Lucifer. \\ may be thou shalt be as we. 

Cain. And ye ? 

Lucifer. Are everlasting. 

Cain. Are ye happy? 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 

Cain. Are ye happy? 

Lucifer. No: art thou? 

Cain. How should I be so ? Look on me ! 

Lucifer. Poor clay ! 

And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou 1 

Cai?i. I am : — and thou, with all thy 
might, what art thou ? 

Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made 
thee, and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

Cain. Ah ! 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and 

Lucifer. I am none : 

And having failed to be one, would be nought 
Save what I am. He conquered; let him 
reign ! 

Cain. Who ? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the 

earth's. 

Cain. And heaven's. 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 

Lucifer. They say — what they must sing 
and say, on pain 
Of being that which I am — and thou art — 
Of spirits and of men. 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immor- 
tality— 2 

2 [In this long dialogue, the tempter tells Cain 
(who is thus far supposed to be ignorant of the fact) 
that the soul is immortal, and that " souls who dare 
use their immortality " are condemned by God to 
be wretched everlastingly.* This sentiment, which 

* " There is nothing against the immortality oi 
the soul in ' Cain' that I recollect. I hold no such 
opinions; — but, in a drama, the first rebel and the 
first murderer must be made to talk according to 
their ciiaracters." — Byron's Letters, 



658 



CAIN. 



[act I. 



Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell him that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made, 
As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 
We are immortal ! — nay, he'd have us so, 
That he may torture: — let him! He is 

great — 
But, in his greatness, is no happier than 
We in our conflict! Goodness would not 

make 
Evil ; and what else hath he made ? But let 

him 
Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 
Creating worlds, to make eternity 
Less burdensome to his immense existence 
And unparticipated solitude; 
Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 
Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ; i 
Could he but crush himself, 'twere the best 

boon 
He ever granted : but let him reign on. 
And multiply himself in misery ! 
Spirits and Men, at least we sympathize — 
And, suffering in concert, make our pangs 
Innumerable, more endurable. 
By the unbounded sympathy of all 
With all ! But He / so. wretched in his height. 
So restless in his wretchedness, must still 

Create, and recreate 2 

Cain. Thou speak'st to me of things which 

long have swum 
In visions through my thought : I never could 
Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
My father and my mother talk to me 
Of serpents, and of fruits and trees: I see 
The gates of what they call their Paradise 
Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim. 
Which shut them out, and me : I feel the 

weight 
Of daily toil, and constant thought : I look 
Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
Could master all things — but I thought alone 



is the pervading moral (if we may call it so) of the 
play, is developed in the lines which follow. — 
Heber.\ 

1 [The poet rises to the sublime in making Luci- 
fer hrst inspire Cain with the knowledge of his 
immortality — a portion of truth which hath the 
efficacy of falsehood upon the victim; for Cain, feel- 
ing himself already unhappy, knowing that his be- 
ing cannot be abridged, has the less scruple to 
desire to be as Lucifer, " mighty." The whole of 
this speech is truly Satanic; a daring and dreadful 
description given by everlasting despair of the 
Deity. — Galt.'l 

2 [InMS.— 

" Create and recreate — perhaps he'll make 
One day a Son unto himself — as he 
Gave you a Father — and if he so doth, 
Mark me! that Son will be a sacrifice! "] 



This misery was mine. — My father is 
Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
Which made her thirst for knowledge at the 

risk 
Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
The earth yield nothing to us without sweat ; 
My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
Th:in the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she, too, understands not 
The mind which overwhelms me : never till 
Now met I aught to sympathize with me. 
'Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits, 

Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit bj 
thine own soul 
For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before.^ 

Caifi. Ah ! didst thou tempt my mother ? 

Lucifer. I tempt none, 

Save with the truth : was not the tree, the tree 
Of knowledge ? and was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful ? Did / bid her pluck them not ? 
Did /plant things prohibited within 
The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
By their own innocence ? I would have made 

ye 
Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth, so 

thrust ye 
Because " ye should not eat the fruits of hfe. 
And become gods as we." Were those his 
words ? 

Cain. They were, as I have heard from 
those who heard them. 
In thunder. 

Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledge ? 

Cain. Would they had snatched both 

The fruits, or neither ! 

Lucifer. One is yours already, 

The other may be still. 

Cain. How so ? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
To sway. 

Cain But didst thou tempt my parents ? 

Lucifer. I ? 

Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or 
how ? 

Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. 

Lucifer. Who 

Saith that ? It is not written so on high : 
The proud One will not so far falsify, 



' [MS.— 

Have stood before thee as I am ; but chosen 
The serpent's charming symbol, as before."3 



SCENE I.] 



CAIN. 



659 



Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual 

nature 
His own low failing. The snake was the 

snake — 
No more; and yet not less than those he 

tempted 
In nature being earth also — more in wisdom, 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Think'st thou I'd take the shape of things 

that die ? 
Cain. But the thing had a deinon ? 
Lucifer. He but woke one 

In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thou- 
sand ages 
Have rolled o'er your dead ashes, and your 

seed's, 
The seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
That bows to him, who made things but to 

bend 
Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 
But we who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
Fond parents listened to a creeping thing, 
And fell. For what should spirits tempt 

them ? What 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 
Space but I speak to thee of what thou 

know'st not. 
With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Cai7t. But thou canst not 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not 

know, 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 

Lucifer. And heart to look on ? 
Cai?t. , Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Barest thou to look on Death ? 
Cain. He has not yet 

Been seen, 
Lucifer. But must be undergone. 
Cain. My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my 

mother 
Weeps when he's named ; and Abel lifts his 

eyes 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth. 
And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
And speaks not. 

Lucifer. And thou ? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 

Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems, 
Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
I wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 
I n play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 



Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb 
all things 
That bear the form of earth-born being. 

Cain. Ah 1 

I thought it was a being: who could do 
Such evil things to beings save a being ? 

Lticifer. Ask the Destroyer. 

Cain. Who ? 

Lucifer. The Maker — call him 

Which name thou wilt: he makes but to de- 
stroy. 

Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since 
I heard 
Of death : although I know not what it is, 
Yet it seems horrible. I have looked out 
In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequerec> 
By the far-fiashing of the cherubs' swords, 
I watched for what I thought his coming ; ' 

for 
With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
What 'twas which shook us all — but nothing 

came. 
And then I turned my weary eyes from off 
Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
Up to the lights above us, in the azure. 
Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die? 

Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both 
thine and thee. 

Cain. I'm glad of that: I would not have 
them die — 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
I feel, it is a dreadful thing; but what, 
I cannot compass : 'tis denounced against us, 
Both them who sinned and sinned not, as an 

ill — 
What ill ? 

Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 

Cain. But shall I know it ? 

Lucifer. As I know not death, 

I cannot answer. 

Cain. Were I quiet earth. 

That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust! 

Lucifer. That is a grovelling wish, 

Less than thy father's, for he wished to know. 

Cai7t. But not to live, or wherefore plucked 
he not 
The life-tree ? 

Lucifer. He was hindered, 

Cain. Deadly error ! 

Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere he 
plucked 



1 [It may appear a very prosaic, but it is cer- 
tainly a very obvious criticism on these passages, 
that the young family of mankind had, long ere 
this, been quite familiar with the death of annuals 
— some of whom Abel was in the habit of offering 
up as sacrifices; so that it is not quite conceivable 
that they should be so much at a loss to conjecture 
what Death was. — Jejfrcy.^ 



660 



CAIN. 



[act t. 



The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
And yet I fear it — fear I know not what! 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear 
nothing, see 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 

Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 

Cai?i. Name it. 

Lucifer. That 

Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy 
Lord. 

Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father 
worships. 

Lucifer. No, 

Cain. His equal ? 

Lucifer. No ; — I have nought in common 
with him ! 
Nor would: I would be aught above — be- 
neath — 
Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great : — 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 

Cai7t. I never 

As yet have bowed unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
Why should I bow to thee ? 

Lucifer, Hast thou ne'er bowed 

To him ? 

Cain. Have I not said it ? — need I say it ? 
Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee 
that? 

Lucifer. He who bows not to him has 
bowed to me ! 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

Lucifer. Ne'er the less 

Thou art my worshipper : not worshipping 
Him makes thee mine the same. 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and here- 
after. 

Cain Let me but 
Be taught the mystery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow 

Where I will lead thee. 

Cain. But I must retire 
To till the earth — for I had promised 

Lucifer. What ? 

Cain. To cull some first-fruits. 

Lucifer. Why ? 

Cain. To offer up 

With Abel on an altar. 

Luci/er. Saidst thou not 

Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made 
thee ? 

Cain. Yes — 
But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon 

me; 
The offering is more his than mine — and 
Adah — 



Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 

Cain. She is my sister. 

Born on the same day, of the same womb ; and 
She wrung from me, with tears, this promise ; 

and 
Rather than see her weep, I would, methinks, 
Bear all — and worship aught. 

Lucifer. Then follow me ! 

Cain, I will.l 

Enter ADAH. 

Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 
It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
Have less without thee. Thou hast labored 

not 
This morn; but I have done thy task: the 

fruits 
Are ripe, and glowing as the light which 

ripens : 
Come away. 

Cain. See'st thou not ? 

Adah, I see an angel ; 

We have seen many : will he share our hour 
Of rest ? — he is welcome, 

Cain, But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others ? 

But he is welcome, as they were : they deigned 
To be our guests — will he ? 

Cain {to Lucifer). Wilt thou ? 

Lucifer. I ask 

Thee to be mine. 

Cain. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us ? 

Cain. Ay. 

Adah. And me ? 

Cain. Beloved Adah ! 

Adah, Let me go with thee. 

Lucifer, No, she must not. 

Adah. Who 

Art thou that steppest between heart and 
heart ? 

Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou ? 

Cain. He speaks like 

A god. 

Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not 
the tree that 
Of knowledge ? 

Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 

Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — 
so he lied not : 
And if he did betray you, 'twas with truth ; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has gathered 
Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heavi- 
ness ; 



1 [The first interview of Lucifer with Cain is full 
of sublimity. — 7e^rey.] 



SCENE I.] 



CAIN. 



661 



Remorse of that which was — and hope of 

that 
Which Cometh not. Cain! walk not with 

this spirit, 
Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
Love thee. 

Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy 
sire ? 

Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? 

Lucifer. No, not yet, 

It one day will be in your children. 

Adah. What ^ 

Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 

Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 

Adah. Oh, my God 1 

Shall they not love and bring forth things that 

love 
Out of their love ? have they not drawn their 

milk 
Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me ? did we not love each other ? and 
In multiplying our being multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love 
Them ? — And as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 
Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 

Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my 
making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
It seem in those who will replace ye in 
Mortaliiy.i 

Adah. What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves : 
and higher 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture 
To the smooth agonies of adulation, 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking 

prayers. 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
But terror and self-hope. 

Adah. Ojnnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 

Lucifer. Was it so in Eden ? 

Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; 
thou art fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

Lucifer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not the 

knowledge 
Of good and evil ? 

Adah. Oh, my mother! thou 

Hast plucked a fruit more fatal to thine off- 
spring 



^ [It is impossible not to be struck with tbe re- 
semblance between many of these passages and 
others in Manfred.'^ 



Than to thyself; thou at the least hast passed 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits : 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about by demons, who assume 
The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert worked on by the snake, in thy most 

flushed 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor 

him ; 
I look upon him with a pleasing fear. 
And yet I fly not from him: in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me 

near. 
Nearer and nearer : — Cain — Cain — save me 
from him ! 
Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is 

no ill spirit. 
Adah. He is not God — nor God's : I have 
beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
Like them. 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 
The archangels. 

Lucifer. And still loftier than the arch- 

angels. 
Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 
Lucifer. If the blessedness 

Consists in slavery — no. 

Adah. I have heard it said, 

The seraphs love most — cherubim know 

most — 
And this should be a cherub — since he loves 
not. 
Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge 
quenches love. 
What must he be you cannot love when 

known ? i 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance: 
That they are not compatible, the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since 

there is 
No other choice: your sire hath chosen 

already ; 
His worship is but fear. 
Adah. Oh, Cain! choose love. 

Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — 
it was 
Born with me — but I love nought else. 
Adah. Our parents ? 

Cain. Did they love us when they snatched 
from the tree 



1 [MS.— 
" What can he be who places love in ignorance?"] 



662 



CAIN. 



[act I. 



That which hath driven us all from Para- 
dise ? 
Adah. We were not born then — and if 

we had been, 
Should we not love them and our children, 

Cain ? 
Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping 

sister ! 
Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 
Shall men love the remembrance of the man 
Who sowed the seed of evil and mankind 
In the same hour ! They plucked the tree of 

science 
And sin — and, not content with their own 

sorrow. 
Begot me — thee — and all the few that are, 
And all the unnumbered and innumerable 
Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be. 
To inherit agonies accumulated 
By ages ! — and / must be sire of such things ! 
Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy, 
The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 
AU we love in our children and each other. 
But lead them and ourselves through many 

years 
Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 
Interchecked with an instant of brief pleasure. 
To Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree 

of knowledge 
Hath not fulfilled its promise : — if they sinned, 
At least they ought to have known all things 

that are 
Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and fruits to teach us 

that? 
Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 

Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — 

I will have nought to do with happiness, 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone I could not, 

Nor looiild be happy : but with those around 

us 
I think I could be so, despite of death. 
Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

i.ncifer. And thou couldst not 

.Uonr, thou say'st, be happy ? 

Adah. Alone! Oh, my God! 

Wlio could be happy and alone, or good ? 
To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
When I think how soon I shall see my brother. 
His brother, and our children, and our parents, 
''■Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone ; and is he 

happy. 
Lonely, and good ? 

Adah. He is not so; he hath 

The angels and the mortals to make happy, 



And thus becomes so in diffusing joy; 
What else can joy be, but the spreading joy ? 

Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh 
from Eden ; 
Or of his first-born son : ask your own heart ; 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah. Alas ! no ! and you — 

Are you of heaven ? 

Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happmess 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and 

good 
Maker of life and living things ; it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. We mur4 bear. 
And some of us resist, and both iji vain, 
His seraphs say: but it is worth the trial. 
Since better may not be without : there is 
A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
Of you, young mortals, lights at once' upon 
The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 

Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I love it for 
Its beauty. 

Lucifer. And why not adore ? 

Adah. Our father 

Adores the Invisible orily. 

Lucifer. But the symbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen him ? 

Adah. Yes — in his works. 

Lucifer. But in his being ? 

Adah. No — 

Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming: as the silent sunny noon. 
All light, they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
Streak the deep purple, and unnumbered stars 
Spangle the v/ondeiful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns ; 
So beautiful, unnumbered, and endearing, 
Not dazzling, and vet drawing us to them. 
They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem'st unhappy : do not make us so. 
And I will weep for thee.i 

1 [In the drawing of Cain himself, there is much 
vigorous expression. It seems, however, as if, in 
the effort to give to Luciier that " spiritual polite- 
ness " which the poet professes to have in view, he 
has reduced him rather below the standard of dia- 
bolic dignity, which was necessary to his dramatic 
interest. He has scarcely "given the devil his 
due." We thought Lord Byron knew better. Mil- 
ton's Satan, with his faded majesty, and blasted but 
not obliterated glory, holds us suspended between 
terror and amazement, with something like awe of 
his spiritual essence and lost estate; but Lord Byron 



SCENE !.] 



CATAT. 



66: 



Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 

Could'st thou but know what oceans will be 
shed 

Adah. By me ? 

Lucifer. By all, 

Adah. What all ? 

Lucifer. The million millions — 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled 

Hell. 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah. O Cain ! 

This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on ; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah. Whither ? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
But in that hour see things of many days, 

Adah. How can that be ? 

Lucifer. Did not your Maker make 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroyed in few ? 

Cain. Lead on, 

Adah. Will he. 

In sooth, return within an hour ? 

Lucifer. He shall. 

With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
Or stretch an hour into eternity : 
We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
But that's a mystery, Cain, come on with 
me. 

Adah. Will he return ? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 

Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save ONE), shall come back 

to thee, 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Where dwellest thou ? 

Lucifer. Throughout all space. Wher'a 
should I dwell ? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with me; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled 

with 
Those who once peopled or shall people 

both — 
These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
His. If I were not that which I have said. 



has introduced him to us as elegant, pensive, and 
beautiful, with an air of sadness and suffering that 
ranks him with the oppressed, and bespeaks our 
pity. Thus, in this dialogue with Adah, he comes 
forth to our view so qualified as to engage our sym- 
pathies. - Brit. Crit.\ 



Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 
Spoke with our mother first. 

Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 

If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
That thirst; nor ask thee to partake <)f fruits 
Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 

Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 

{Exeunt lA^CiVE-K andCM^. 

Adah {folloios, exclaiming). Cain! my 
brother ! Cain ! 



ACT II. 

Scene I.— The Abyss of Space. 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I 

fear to sink. 
Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt 
be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 
Cai7i. Can I do so without impiety ? 
Lucifer. Believe — and sink not ! doubt — 
and perish ! thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels ; they 
Echo the sound to iniserable things. 
Which, knowing nought beyond their shal- 
low senses. 
Worship the word which strikoe their ear, and 

deem 
Evil or good what is proclaimed to thcin 
In their abasement. I will have none such : 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life, 
With torture of my dooming. There will 

come 
An hour, when, tossed upon some water- 
drops,! 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
And walk the waters ; " and the man shall 

walk 
The billows and be safe, /will not say, 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee ; but fly with me o'er tlie gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thou dar'st not deny, — the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 
Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er 
thou art. 
Is yon our earth ? 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recognize 

The dust which formed your father ? 

Cam. Can it be ? 

Yon small blue circle, swimming in far ether, 
With an inferior circlet near it still, 

1 [MS.— 

" An hpur, when, walking on a pretty lake."] 



664 



CAIN. 



[act II. 



Which looks like that which lit our earthly 

night ? 
Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls, 
And they who guard them ? 

Lucifer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 

Cain. How should I ? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and 

smaller, 
And as it waxes little, and then less, 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them. 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us ; and, as we move on. 
Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far 

more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth. 
Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
All living, and all doomed to death, and 

.wretched. 
What wouldst thou think ? 

Cai7i. I should be proud of thought 

Which knew such things. 

Lucifer. But if that high thought were 

Linked to a servile mass of matter, and. 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
And science still beyond them, were chained 

down 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
A most enervating and filthy cheat 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoomed to be 
As frail, and few so happy — i 



' [It is nothing less than absurd to suppose, that 
Lucifer cannot well be expected to talk like an 
orthodox divine, and that the conversation of the 
first Rebel and the first Murderer was not likely to 
be very unexceptionable ; or to plead the authority 
of Milton, or the authors of the old mysteries, for 
such offensive colloquies. The fact is, that here 
the whole argument — and a very elaborate* and 
specious argument it is — is directed against the 
goodness or the power of the Deity; and there is 
no answer so much as attempted to the offensive 

* " What does Jeffrey mean by elaborate ? 
Why ! they were written as fast as I could put pen 
to paper, in the midst of evolutions, and revolutions, 
and persecutions, and proscriptions of all who inter- 
esced me in Italy. They said the same of ' Lara,' 
which I wrote while undressing, after coming home 
from balls and masquerades. Of all I have ever 
written, they are perhaps the most carelessly com- 
posed; and their faults, whatever they may be, are 
those of negligence, and not of labor. I do not 



think this is a merit, but it is a fact." 



Byron's 



Cain. Spirit! I 

Know nought of death, save as a dreadful 

thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, 

as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life ; a heritage not happy, 
If I may judge, till now. But, spirit ! if 
It be as thou hast said (and I within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth), 
Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death, 
And multiplying murder. 

Lucifer. Thou canst not 

All die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 
Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou be as 

I am ? 
Cain. I know not what thou art : I see 
thy power 
And see thou show'st me things beyond my 

power. 
Beyond all power of my born faculties, 
Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are they which dwell 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay ? 

Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful ? 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 

doctrines that are so strenuously inculcated. The 
Devil and his pupil have the field entirely to them- 
selves, and are encountered with nothing but feeble 
obtestations and unreasoning horrors. Nor is this 
argumentative blasphemy a mere incidental deform- 
ity that arises in the course of an action directed to 
the common sympathies of our nature. It forms, 
on the contrary, the great staple of the piece, and 
occupies, we should think, not less than two thirds 
of it; so that it is really difficult to believe that it 
was written for any other purpose than to inculcate 
these doctrines; or, at least, to discuss the question 
upon which they bear. Now, we can certainly have 
no objection to Lord Byron writing an essay on the 
origin of evil, and sifting the whole of that vast and 
perplexing subject, with the force and the freedom 
that would be expected and allowed in a fair philo- 
sophical discussion; but we do not think it fair 
thus to argue it partially and con amore, in the 
name of Lucifer and Cain, without the responsibility 
or the liability to answer, that would attach to a 
philosophical disputant; and in a form which both 
doubles the danger, if the sentiments are pernicious, j 
and almost precludes his opponents from the pos4)r | 
bility of a reply. — fej^rey,] 



SCENE 1.] 



CAIN. 



665 



And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

Cain. TIiou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately — but since it must be, 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 

Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon 
thee. 

Caifi. How ? 

Lucifer. By suffering. 

Cain. And must torture be immortal ? 

Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But 
now, behold ! 
Is it not glorious ? 

Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 

And unimaginable ether! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion — at which my soul. aches to think — 
Intoxicated with eternity ? 
Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die, 
(If that they die) or know ye in your might 
And knowledge I My thoughts are not in this 

hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? look back 
to thine earth 1 

Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a 
mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 

Lucifer. Look there ! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. That ! — yonder I 

Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 

Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and tiie green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

Lucifr. Thou hast seen both worms and 
worlds. 
Each bright and sparkling — what dost think 
of them ? 

Cain. That they are beautiful in their own 
sphere. 
And that the night , which makes both beautiful, 
The little shining fire-fly in its flight. 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided, 

Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 



Cain. Show me. 

Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold ? 

Cain. How know I what 

I dare behold ? As yet, thou hast shown 

nought 
I dare not gaze on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or im- 
mortal ? 

Cain. Why, what are things ? 

Lucifer. Both partly : but what doth 

Sit next thy heart ? 

Cain. The things I see. 

Lucifer. But what 

Sate nearest it ? 

Cain. The things I have not seen, 

Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 

Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things 
which have died. 
As I have shown thee much which cannot die? 

Cam. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then I on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh ! how we cleave the blue I the 
stars fade from us I 
The earth ! where is my earth ? Let me look 

on it. 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee, 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it ; 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust; 
'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 

Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 

Lucifer. To what was before thee ! 

The phantasm of the world; of which thy 

world 
Is but the wreck. 

Cain. What ! is it not then new ? 

Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that 
was ere thou 
Or / were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either : many things will have 
No end ; and some, which would pretend to 

have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou ; and mightier things have been ex- 
tinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise; for moments only and the space 
Have been and must be all loichangeable. 
But changes make not death, except to clay; 
But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
That which was clay, and such thou shalt be- 
hold. 

Cain. Clay, spirit! what thou wilt, I can 
survey. 

Luc if e^. Away, then ! 

Cain. But the lights fade from me fast. 

And some till now grew larger as we ap- 
proached, 
And wore the look of worlds. 

Lucifer. And such they are. 



666 



CAIN. 



[act II. 



Cain. And Edens in them ? 

Lucifer. It may be. 

Cain. And men ? 

Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 

Cain. Ay ? and serpents too ? 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without 
them ? must no reptiles 
Breathe, save the erect ones ? 

Cain. How the lights recede 1 

Where fly we ? 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 
Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 

Cain. But it grows dark, and dark — the 
stars are gone ! 

Lucifer. And yet thou seest. 

Cain. 'Tis a fearful light ! 

No sun, no moon, no hghts innumerable. 
The very blue of the empurpled night 
Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 
Huge dusky masses ; but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seemed full of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and showed them taking 

shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
And some emitting sparks, and some display- 
ing 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, 

which took, 
Like them, the features of fair earth : — instead. 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death, and dead 
things ? 

Cain. I seek it not ; but as I know there 
are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me. 
And all that we inherit, liable 
To such, I would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold 1 

Cain. "lis darkness. 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
Unfold its gates ! 

Cain. Enormous vapors roll 

Apart — what's this ? 

Lucifer. Enter 1 

Cain. Can I return ? 

Lucifer. Return ! be sure : how else should 
death be peopled ? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be, 
Through thee and thine. 

Cain. The clouds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round 
us. 

Lucifer. Advance ! 

Cain. And thou ! 

Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 

^[louldst not have gone beyond thy world. 
On! on! 

[ They disappear through the clouds. 



Scene U. — Hades. 
Enter LuciFER and Cain. 

Cai7i. How silent and how vast are these 
dim worlds ! 
For they seem more than one, and yet more 

peopled 
Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which 

swung 
So thickly in the upper air, that I 
Had deemed them rather the bright populace 
Of some all unimaginable Heaven, 
Than things to be inhabited themselves, 
But that on drawing near them I beheld 
Their swelling into palpable immensity 
Of matter, which seemed made for life to dwell 

on 
Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
It speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. It is the realm 

Of death. — Wouldst have it present ? 

Cain. Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it be as I have heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 'tis a thing — 
Oh God ! I dare not think on't ! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death ! 
Or the dull mass of life, that, being life, 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
Even for the innocent ! 

Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father ? 

Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me my 
birth ? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 

Lucifer. Thou say'st well : 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother ? 

Cain. l^et them share it 

With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
Bequeathed to me ? I leave them my inher- 
itance. 
Oh, ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes. 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye ? 
Live ye, or have ye lived ? 

Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 

Cain. Then what is death ? 

Lucifer. What ? Hath not he who made ye 
Said 'tis another life ? 

Cain. Till now he hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall die. 

Lucifer. Perhaps 

He one day will unfold that further secret. 

Cain. Happy the day ! 

Lucifer. Yes ; happy ! when unfolded, 

Through agonies unspeakable, and clogged 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
All to be animated for this only ! 



SCENE 11.] 



CAIN. 



667 



'^'■■Caln. What are these mighty phantoms 

which I see 
Floating around me ? — They wear not the 

form 
Of the intelligences I have seen 
Round our regretted and unentered Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have viewed it 
In Adam's and in Abel's, and in mine, 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's ; 
And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
Of man nor angels, looks like something, which 
If not the last, rose higher than the first. 
Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man. 
Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Cain. Where ? 

Lidcifer. Where 

Thou livest. 

Cain. When ? 

Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 

They did inhabit. 

Cain. Adam is the first. 

L-ucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too 
mean to be 
The last of these. 

Cain. And what are they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou shalt be. 

Cain. But what were they ? 

Lucifer. Living, high, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be, 
In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
Thee and thy son ; —and how weak they are, 

judge 
By thy own flesh. 

Cain. Ah me ! and did they perish ? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt 
fade from thine. 

Cain. But was 7nine theirs? 

Lucifer. It was. 

Caiti. But not as now. 

It is too little and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures.! 



' [" If, according to some speculations, you could 
prove the world many thousand years older than 
the Mosaic chronology — or if you could knock 
up Adam and Eve, and the Apple and Serpent — 
still, what is to be put up in their stead? — or how 
is the difficulty removed? Things must have had 
a beginning: and what matters it when, or ho7v? 
I sometimes think that man may be the relic of 
some higher material being wrecked in a former 



Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 

Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 

Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 

Cain. But how ? 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 
Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
Tiiough rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 

Cain. 'Tis awful l 

Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms 1 
they were once 
Material as thou art. 

Cain. And must I be 

Like them ? 

Lucifer. Let He who made thee answer 
that. 
I show thee what thy predecessors are, 
And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in common have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shall \\-a.\Q — death: the 

rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles engendered out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crushed into 
A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blind- 
ness — 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
Knowledge was barred as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were ; 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task — I'll waft thee there in 
safety. 

Cain. No : I'll stay here. 

Lucifer. How long ? 

Cain. Forever ! Since 

I must one day return here from the earth, 
I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in 
shadows. 

Lucifer. It cannot be : thou now beholdest 
as 
A vision that which is reality. 
To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
Must pass through what the things thou see'st 

have passed — 
The gates of death. 



world, and degenerated in the hardship and struggle 
through chaos into conformity, or something like it 
— as we see Laplanders, Esquimaux, etc., inferior, 
in the present date, as the elements become more 
inexorable. But even then, this higher pre-Adamite 
supposititious creation must have had an origin and 
a Creator; for a Creator is a more natural imagina- 
tion than a fortuitous concourse of atoms: all 
things remount to a fountain, though they may flow 
to an ocean." — Byron's Diary, 1821.] 



668 



CAIN. 



[act II. 



Cain. By what gate have we entered 

Even now ? 

Lucifer. By mine ! But, plighted to return, 
Mv spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on. 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

Cain. And these, too; can they lie'er repass 
To earth again ? 

Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever — 

So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely hardened surface — 'twas — 
Oh, what a beautiful world it wasf^ 

Cain. And is. 

It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful, untoiling, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou see'st, 
But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures. 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have 

passed, 
Resembhng somewhat the wild habitants 



1 [Mr. Gifibrd having, through Mr. Murray, sug- 
gested the propriety of omitting a portion of this 
dialogue, Byron replied: — "The two passages 
cannot be altered withoutmaking Lucifer talk like the 
Bishop of London, which would not be in the char- 
acter of the former. The notion is from Cuvier 
(that of the old worlds). The other passage is 
also in character; if nonsense, so much the better, 
because then it can do no harm; and the sillier 
Satan is made, the safer for everybody. As to 
' alarms,' etc., do you really think such things ever 
led anybody astray ? Are these people more impious 
than Milton's Satan? or the Prometheus of ^schy- 
lus? or even than the ' Sadducees,' the 'Fall of 
Jerusalem' of Milman, etc.? Are not Adam, Eve, 
Adah, and Abel, as pious as the Catechism? Gif- 
ford is too wise a man to think that such things can 
have any serious effect: who was ever altered by a 
poem? I beg leave to observe, that there is no 
creed or personal hypothesis of mine in all this; but 
I was obliged to make Cain and Lucifer talk con- 
sistently, and surely this has always been permitted 
to poesy. Cain is a proud man: if Lucifer prom- 
ised him kingdom, etc., it would elate him: the 
object of the demon is to depress him still further 
in his own estimation than he was before, by show- 
ing him infinite things and his own abasement, till 
he falls into the frame of mind that leads to the 
catastrophe, from mere internal irritation, not pre- 
meditation, or envy of Abel (which would have 
made him contemptible), but from rage and fury 
against the inadequacy of his state to his concep- 
tions, and which discharges itself rather against life, 
and the Author of life, than the mere living. His 
subsequent remorse is the natural effect of looking 
on his sudden deed. Had the deed been f>yrjue<U- 
tatedf his repentance would have been tardier."] I 



Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but ten-fold 
In magnitude and terror; taller than 
The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence 

them, 

And tusks projecting like the trees stripped of 

Their bark and branches — what were they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

The Mammoth is in thy world; — but these 

lie 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Cain. But 

None on it? 

Lucifer. No : for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it use- 
less — 
'Twould be destroyed so early. 

Cain. But why war ? 

Lucifer, You have forgotten the denuncia- 
tion 
Which drove your race from Eden — war 

with all things. 
And death to all things, and disease to most 

things. 
And pangs, and bitterness; these were the 

fruits 
Of the forbidden tree. 

Cain. But animals — 

Did they, too, eat of it, that they must die ? 
Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were 
made for you 
As you for him. — You would not have their 

doom 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

Cain. Alas I the hopeless wretches I 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his 

sons ; 
Like them, too, without having shared the 

apple ; 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought 

knowledge / 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least \i promised knowledge at iha price 
Of death — but knowledge still : but what knows 
man? 
Lucifer. It may be death leads to the high- 
est knowledge ; 
And being of all things the sole thing certain, 
At least leads to the surest science: therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

Cain. These dim realms ! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. ^ Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter* cannot 
Comprehend' spirit wholly — but 'tis some- 
thing 
To know there are such realms. 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 
Lucifer. But not what was beyond il. 



SCENE II.] 



CAIN. 



669 



Cain. Nor know I now. 
Lucifer. Thou knowest that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
And this thou knewest not this morn. 

Cain. But all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Be content ; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortality. 

Cam. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
Which looks like water, and which I should 

deem 
The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
What is it? 

Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 'tis the phantasm of an ocean, 
Cain. 'Tis like another world ; a liquid 
sun — 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface ? 

Lucifer. Are its habitants, 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears his dripping mane and 

vasty 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest 

cedar 
Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately looked on — 
Is he not of the kind which basked beneath 
The tree in Eden ? 

Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, best 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 
Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt 
the other 
Had more of beauty. 
Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him ? 

Cain. Many of the same kind (at least so 
called). 
But never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 
Lucifer, Your father saw him not ? 
Cain. No: 'twas my mother 

Who tempted him — she tempted by the ser- 
pent. 
Lucifer. Good man ! whene'er thy wife, 
or thy sons' wives. 
Tempt thee or them to aught that's new or 

strange, 
Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 
Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there 
is no more 
For serpents to tempt women to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may tempt 

man to. 
And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look 

to it! 
My counsel is a kind pne ; for 'tis even 



Given chiefly at my own expense ; 'tis true, 
'Twill not be followed, so there's little lost. 
Cain. I understand not this. 
Lucifer. The happier thou ! — 

Thy world and thou are still too young ! Thou 

thinkcst 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so? 

L 'ain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 

Thy present state of sin — and thou ait evil, 
Of sorrow — and thou sufferest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Thou shortly may'st be ; and that state again, 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
In generations like to dust (which they 
In tact but add to), shall endure and do. — 
Now let us back to earth ! 

Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this ? 
Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 
Cain. Yes : as being 

The road to happiness. 

Lucifer. If truth be so, 

Thou hast it. 

Cain. Then my father's God did well 

When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Lucifer. But had done better in not plant- 
ing it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
A part of all things. 

Cain. Not of all things. No: 

I'll not believe it — for I thirst for good. 
Lucifer. And who and what doth not ? 
Who covets evil 
For its own bitter sake ? — none — nothing! 'tis 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 

Cai7i. Within those glorious orbs which 
we behold, 
Distant and dazzling, and innumerable, 
Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
I 111 cannot come: they are too beau'iful. 
j Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar — 
! Cain. And what of that ? 

Distance can but diminish glory — they, 
When nearer, must be more ineffable. 
j Lucifer. Approach the things of earth most 
\ beautiful, 

j And judge their beauty near. 
! Caitt. I have done this — 

The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 
j Lucifer. Then there must be delusion. — 
I What is that, 

Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 
Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars cf 
heaven, 
The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 



670 



CAW. 



[Act It 



The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous 

coming — 
His setting indescribable, which fills 
My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with 

him 
Along that western paradise of clouds — 
The forest shade — the green bough — the 

bird's voice — 
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
And mingles with the song of cherubim. 
As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart. 
Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and 

heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis fair as frail mortality, 
I n the first dawn and bloom of young creation 
And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 
Can make its offspring; still it is delusion. 
Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 
Lucifer. Mortal I 

My brotherliood's with those who have no 

children. 
Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship 

with us. 
Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be 

for me. 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do I exist ? 

Why art thou wretched ? why are all things so ? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
Can surely never be the task of joy. 
And yet my sire says he's omnipotent : 
Then why is evil — he being good ? I asked 
This question of my fether ; and he said. 
Because this evil only was the path 
To good. Strange good, that must arise 

from out 
Its deadly opposite.! I lately saw 
A lamb stung by a reptile : the poor suckling 
Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
Myfather pluckedsome herbs, and laid them to 
Thewound ; andby degrees thehelpless wretch 
Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 



^ [ " God Almighty ! 
There is some soul of goodness in things evil. 
Would men observingly distil it out; 
For our bad neighbors make us early stirrers, 
Which is both healthful and good husbandry; 
Besides, they are our outward consciences. 
And preachers to us all; admonishing. 
That we should dress us fairly for our end. 
Thus may we gather honey from the weed, 
And make a moral of the devil himself." 
Shakspeare,'\ 



Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 
Springs good ! 

Lucifer. What didst thou answer? 

Cain. Nothing; for 

He is my father : but I thought, that 'twere 
A better portion for the animal 
Never to have been stun^- at all, than to 
Purchase renewal of its little life 
With agonies unutterable, though 
Dispelled by antidotes. 

Lucifer. But as thou saidst 

Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
Who shared thy mother's milk, andgiveth hers 
Unto thy children 

Cain. Most assuredly : 

What should I be without her ? 

Lucifer. What am I? 

Cain. Dost thou love nothing ? 

Lucifer. What does thy God love ? 

Cam. All things, my father says ; but I 
confess 
I see it not in their allotment here. 

Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst.not see 
if / love 
Or no, except some vast and general purpose. 
To which particular thingsmustmelt likesnows. 

Cain. Snows ! what are they ? 

Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 
What thy remoter offspring must encounter ; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no 
winter. 

Cain. But dost thou not love something 
hke thyself? 

Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself f 

Cain. Yes, but love more 

What makes my feelings more endurable. 
And is more than myself, because I love it. 

Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beau- 
tiful. 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautiful ! how can that 
be? 

Lucifer. With time. 

Cain. But time has past, and hitherto 

Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
But very fair. 

Lucifer. All that must pass away 
In them and her. 

Cain. I'm sorry for it ; but 

Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
He who creates ail beauty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perish such a work. 

Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest v/hat must 
perish. 

Cain. And I thee who lov'st nothing. . 

Lucifer. And thy brother -tt; 

Sits he not near thy heart ? 

Cain. Why should he npt ? 



SCENE II. J 



CAIN. 



671 



Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so 
does thy God. 

Cain. And so do I. 

Lucifer. 'Tis well and meekly done. 

Cain. Meekly ! 

Lucifer. He is the second born of flesh, 
And is his mother's favorite, 

Caiti. Let him keep 

Her favor, since the serpent was the first 
To win it. 

Lucifer. And his father's ? 

Cain. What is that 

To me? should I not love that which all 
love ? 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent 
Lord, 
And bounteous planter of barred Paradise — 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 

Cain. Rarely. 

Lucifer. But 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother : 
His sacrifices are acceptable. 

Cain. So be they ! wherefore speak to me 
of this ? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this 
ere now. 

Cain. And if 

I have thought,_why recall a thought that 

{He pauses, as agitated^ — Spirit ! 
Here we are in thy world ; speak not of 

mine. 
Thou hast shown me wonders; thou hast 

shown me those 
Mighty pre-Adamites who walked the earth 
Of which ours is the wreck ; thou hast 

pointed out 
Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
Is the dim and remote companion, in 
Infinity of life : thou hast shown me shadows 
Of that existence with the dreaded name 
Which my sire brought us — Death ; i thou 

hast shown me much — 
But not all : show me where Jehovah dwells, 
In his especial Paradise — or thine : 
Where is it ? 

Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 

Cain. But ye 

Have some allotted dwelling — as all things; 
Clay has its earth, and other worlds their ten- 
ants ; 
All temporary breathing creatures their 
Peculiar element ; and things which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, 

* thou say'st ; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
Ye do not dwell together ? 



i[MS.— 

** Which my sire shrinks from 



Death."] 



Lucifer. No, we reign 

Together ; but our dwellings are asunder. 
Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! 
perchance 
An unity of purpose might make union 
In elements which seem now jarred in storms. 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infi- 
nite. 
To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
Your essence, and your nature, and your 
glory ? 
Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 
Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain ; but v/ere it not so. 
Is spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out ? 
Infinity with Immortality ? 
Jarring and turning space to misery — 
For what ? 
Lucifer. To reign. 

Cain. Did ye not tell me that 

Ye are both eternal ? 
Lucifer. Yea ! 

Caiji. And what I have seen. 

Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 
Lucifer. Ay. 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — 
is there not 
Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 

Lucifer. We both reign. 

Cain, But one of you makes evil. 
Lucifer. Which ? 

Cain. Thou ! for 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou 
not? 
Lucifer. And why not he who made ? / 
made ye not ; 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cam. Then leave us 

His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show 

me 
Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

Lucifer. I could show thee 

Both ; but the time will come thou shalt see 

one 
Of them for evermore.2 

Cai}i. And why not now ? 

Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely 
grasp to gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on 

aspiring 
To the great double Mysteries ! the two Prin- 
ciples ! 
And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 

2 [In Byron's Diary for January 28, 1821, is the 
following entry : — 

" Thought for a speech of Lucifer, in the 

Tragedy of Cain. 

' Were Death an evil, would / let thee live ? 

Fool! live as I live — as thy father lives, 

And thy sons' sons shall live for evermore ! ' "] 



672 



CAIN. 



[act III. 



Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 

Cain. And let me perish, so I see them ! 

Luci/er. There 

The son of her who snatched the apple spake ! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see 

them ; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cain. Of death ? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it less, 

Now that I know it leads to something definite. 

Lticifer. And now I will convey thee to thy 
world. 
Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, 
and die. 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld these 
things 
Which thou hast shown me ? 

Lucifer. Didst thou not require 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I 

showed, 
Taught thee to know thyself? 

Cain. Alas ! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's noth- 
ingness ; 
Bequeathe that science to thy children, and 
'Twill spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Haughty spirit ! 

Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself, though 

proud, 
Hast a superior. 

Lucifer. No ! By heaven, which He 

Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
Of worlds and life, which I hold with him — 

No! 
I have a victor — true; but no superior. 
Homage he has from all — but none from me : 
I battle it against him, as I battled 
In highest heaven. Through all eternity. 
And the unfathomable gulls of Hades, 
And the interminable realms of space. 
And the infinity of endless ages. 
All, all, will I dispute ! And world by world. 
And star by star, and universe by universe, 
Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease. 
Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quenched ! 
And what can quench our immortality. 
Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
He as a conqueror will call the conquered 
Evil ; but what will be \}'AQ good he gives ? 
Were I the victor, his works would be deemed 
The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
And scarce-born mortals, what have been his 

gifts 
To you already, in your little world ? 

Cain. But few ; and some of those but bit- 
ter. 



Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Of his celestial boons to you and yours. 
Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
Evil springs from him, do not name it mine, 
Till ye know better its true fount ; and judge 
Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of your existence, such as it must be. 
One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
Your reason : — let it not be over-swayed 
By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
'Gainst all external sense and inward feeling : 
Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
In your own bosom — where the outward fails ; 
So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
Nature, and war triumphant with your own.l 
[ They disappear. 



ACT HI. 

Scene I.— The Earth, near Eden, as in 
Act /. 

Elnter Cain and Adah. 

Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain. 

Cain. I will ; but wherefore ? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon 
bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress ! 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourned 



1 [As to the question of the origin of evil, which 
is the burden of this misdirected verse. Lord Byron 
has neither thrown any new light upon it, nor 
darkened the previous knowledge which we pos- 
sessed. It remains just where it was, in its mighty, 
unfathomed obscurity. His Lordship may, it is 
true, have recapitulated some of the arguments with 
a more concise and cavalier air than the old school- 
men or fathers ; but the result is the same. There 
is no poetical road to metaphysics. In one view, 
however, which our rhapsodist has taken of the 
subject, we conceive he has done well. He repre- 
sents the temptations held out to Cain by Satan, as 
constantly succeeding and corresponding to some 
previous discontent and gloomy disposition in his 
own mind; so that Lucifer is little more than the per- 
sonified demon of his imagination : and further, the 
acts of guilt and folly into which Cain is hurried are 
not treated as accidental, or as occasioned by pass- 
ing causes, but as springing from an internal fury, 
a morbid state akin to phrensy, a mind dissatisfied 
with itself and all things, and haunted by an insati- 
able, stubborn longing after knowledge rather than 
happiness, and a fatal proneness to dwell on the e)yl 
side of things rather than the good. We here see 
the dreadful consequences of not curbing this dis- 
position (which is, after all, perhaps, the sin that 
most easily besets humanity), exemplified in a 
striking point of view; and we so far think, that the 
moral to be derived from a perusal of this Mystery 
is a valuable one. — Jejfrey.^ 



SCENE 1.] 



CAIN. 



673 



O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou 

choose it 
For our child's canopy ? 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore 

seemed 
Fitting to shadow slumber. 

Cain. Ay, the last — 

And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 
[ They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now: he will awake 

soon — 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
'Tis closed. 

Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 
My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — 

Sleep on 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a w orld scarce less young : sleep on, and 

smile I 
Thine are the hours and days when both are 

cheering 
And innocent! thou hast not plucked the 

fruit — 
Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the 

time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins un- 
known, 
Which were not thine nor mine ? But now 

sleep on ! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper sttiiles. 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er 

them ; 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must 

dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise 1 — Ay ! dream of it, 
My disinherited boy ! 'Tis but a dream ; 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! i 
Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper 

o'er our son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
Can we not make another ? 

Cain. Where ? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel 

not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 



1 [The censorious may say what they will, but 
there are speeches in the mouth of Cain and Adah, 
especially regarding their child, which nothing in 
English poetry but the " wood-notes wild " of Shak- 
speare ever equalled. — Sir Egerton Brydges.'\ 



Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and 

brother, 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the 
debts we owe her. 

Adah. Cain 1 that proud spirit, who with- 
drew thee hence, 
Hath saddened thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast be- 
held. 
Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank 

him. 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon ? 

Adah. 'Tis scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
To me, but only hours upon the sun. 

Cain. And yet I have approached that sun, 
and seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never 

more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
Years had rolled o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours, 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time. 
And measures it by that which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful; little or almighty. 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings ; 2 skirred extinguished 

worlds ; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 
I had borrowed more by a few drops of ages 
From its immensity : but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
That I was nothing ! 

Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 

Jehovah said not that. 

Cain. No : he contents him 

With making us the nothing which we are ; 
And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and Immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

Adah. Thou know'st — 

Even for our parents' error. 

Caifi. What is that 

To us ? they sinned, then let them die ! 

Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is 
that thought 
Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would / could die for them, so they might live ! 

Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one 
victim 
Might satiate the insatiable of life, 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 



- [MS, — " I had beheld the works of ages and 
Immortal beings,"] 



674 



CAIN. 



[act III. 



Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from 

him. 
Adah. How know we that some such atone- 
ment one day- 
May not redeem our race ? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for the guilty? what atonement 
Were there ? why, we are innocent : what 

have we 
Done that we must be victims for a deed 
15efore our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 
Adah. Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : 

thy words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Cain. Then leave me ! 

Adah. Never 

Though thy God left thee. 

Cain. Say, what have we here ? 

Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel 

made 
During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. 

Cain. And how knew he, that / would be 

so ready 
With the burnt offerings, which he daily brings 
With a meek brow, whose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator ? 

Adah. Surely, 'tis well done. 

Cain. One altar may suffice; / have no 

offering. 
Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, 

beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and 

fruits ; 
These are a goodly offering the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 
Cain. I have toiled, and tilled, and sweaten 

in the sun 
According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
With all the elements ere they will yield 
The bread we eat ? For what must I be 

grateful ? 
For being dust, and grovelling in the dust. 
Till I return to dust? If I am nothing — 
For nothing shall I be an hypocrite. 
And seem well-pleased with pain ? For what 

should I 
Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already 
Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
And to be more than expiated by 
The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
Little deems our young blooming sleeper, 

there. 
The germs of an eternal misery 
To myriads is within hiin ! better 'twere 
I snatched him in his sleep, and dashed him 

'gainst 



The rocks, than let him live to 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Touch not the child — my child! thy child! 

Oh Cain ! 

Cain. Fear not ! for all the stai-s, and all 

the power 

Which sways them, I would not accost yon 

infant 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 
Cain. I said, 

'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeathe ; but since 
That s-aying jars you, let us only say — 
'Twere better that he never had been born. 
Adah. Oh, do not say so! Where were 
then the joys, 
The mother's joys of watching, nourishing. 
And loving him ? Soft ! he awakes. Sweet 
Enoch ! \She goes to the child. 

Oh Cain 1 look'on him ; see how full of life. 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy. 
How like to me — how like to thee, when 

gentle, 
For then we are all alike ; is't not so, Cain ? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other ; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my 

Cain! 
And love thyself for our sakes, for we love 

thee. 
Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his 

arms. 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
To hail his father; while his little form 
Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too.^ 

Cain. Bless thee, boy ! 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

Adah. It shall. 

Surely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile's subtletv. 

Cain. ' Of that I doubt ; 

But bless him ne'er the less. 
Adah. Our brother comes. 

Cain. Thy brother Abel. 
Enter ABEL. 

1 [The third Act shows us Cain gloomily lament- 
ing over the future fortunes of his infant son, and 
withstanding all the consolation and entreaties of 
Adaii, who is anxious to soften him to the task of 
submission and to a participation in the sacrifice 
which his brother is about to offer. Here are some 
passages of no common beauty. That which strikes 
us most is when the parents ate hanging over their 
sleeping boy. — Bishop Heber.\ 



SCENE I.J 



CAIN. 



675 



Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother. 

The peace of God be on thee ! 

Cain. Abel, hail! 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast 
been wandering, 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of 

those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our 
father ? 
Cam. No, 

Abel. Why then commune with him ? he 
may be 
A foe to the Most High. 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — if so you term 
him ? 
Abel. Term him / your words are strange 
to-day, my brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 

But first embrace thy son. May his soft 

spirit, 
And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and holiness ! 

[^Exit Adah, ivlth her child. 
Abel. Where hast thou been ? 

Cai7i. I know not. 

Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 

Cain. The dead. 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipo- 
tent. 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
A whirlwind of such overwhelming things. 
Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud- 
voiced spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made 

me 
Unfit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 
Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with un- 
natural light — 
Thy cheek is flushed with an unnatural hue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural 

sound — 
What may this mean ? 

Cain. It means I pray thee, leave me. 

Abel. Not till we have prayed and sacri- 
ficed together. 
Cain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 
Abel. Doth well, I hope. 

Cain. But thee the better : I care not for 
that ; 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am ; 
Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
At least, without me. 

Abel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our great father's son. 
If, as my elder, I revered thee not, 
And in the worship of our God called not 



On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 'tis thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'et 

Asserted it. 

Abel. The more my grief ; I pray thee 
To do so now : thy soul seems laboring in 
Some strong delusion; it will calm thee. 

Cain. No; 

Nothing can calm me more. Calm! say I ? 

Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements stilled. My Abel, 

leave me ! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 
Abel. Neither ; we must perform our task 
together. 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must be so well, then, 

What shall I do ? 

Abel. Choose one of those two altars. 

Cain. Choose for me : they to me are so 
much turf 
And stone. 

Abel. Choose thou ! 
Cain. I have chosen. 

Abel. 'Tis the highest, 

And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine ? 

Abel. Behold them here — 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 
A shepherd's Humble offering. 

Cain. I have no flocks ; 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 

\He gathers fruits. 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripe- 
ness. 
[ They dress their altars, and kindle afiame 

upon them. 
Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 
Cain. No — I am new to this; lead thou 
the way, 
And I will follow — as I may. 

Abel {kneeling). Oh God ! 

Who made us, and who breathed the breath 

of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to 

make i 
His children all lost, as they might have 

been, 
Had not thy justice been so tempered with 
The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
Accord a pardon Uke a Paradise, 
Compared with our great crimes : — Sole 

Lord of light ! 
Of good, and glory, and eternity; 

' [MS.— 
"And despised not for our father's sin to make."] 



676 



CAIN. 



[act III. 



Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can err, except to some good end 
Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfilled — 
Accept from out thy humble first ot shep- 
herd's 
First of the first-born flocks — an offering. 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee ? — but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honor 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 
Cain {standing erect during this speech). 
Spirit ! whate'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from 

evil; 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
And it may be with other names, l^ecause 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works : — 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
Take them ! If thou must be induced with 

altars. 
And softened with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, 

wliich smokes 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
In the first of his flock, wliose limbs now reek 
In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 
Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth. 
And milder seasons, which the unstained turf 
I spread them on now offers in the face 
Of the broad sun which ripened them, may 

seem 
Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
Suffered in limb or life, and rather form 
A sample of thy works, than supplication 
To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim, 
And altar without gore, may win thy favor. 
Look on it! and for him who dresseth it, 
He is — such as thou madest him ; and seeks 

nothing 
Which must be won by kneeling: if he's evil. 
Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and may'st — 
For what can he oppose ? If be be good, 
Strike him, or spare him, as thou wilt ! since all 
Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
To have no power themselves,, save in thy 

will: 
And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 
[ The fire upon the altar of ABEL kindles 
into a column of the brightest fiame, and 
ascends to heaven ; xvhile a luhirlwind 
throTUS dow7i the altar of CaiN, and scat- 
ters the fruits abroad upon the earth. 
Abel {kneeling). Oh, brother, pray! Je- 
hovah's wroth with thee. 



Cain. Why so ? 

Abel. Thy fruits are scattered on the earth. 
Cain. From earth they came, to earth let 
them return ; 
Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the 

summer. 
Thy burnt flesh-offering prospers better ; see 
How heaven licks up the flames, when thick 
witli blood! 
Abel. Think not upon my offering's ac- 
ceptance. 
But make another of thine own before 
It is too late. 

Cain. I will build no more altars, 

Nor suffer any. — 

Abel {rising). Cain! what meanest thou ? 
Cain. To cast down yon vile flatterer of the 
clouds. 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull prayers — 
Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids, 
Which fed on milk, to be destroyed in blood. 
Abel {opposing him). Thou shalt not: — 
add not impious works to impious 
Words! let that altar stand — 'tis hallowed 

now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

Cain. His! 

His pleasure! what was his high pleasure in 
The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking 

blood. 
To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead offspring? or the 

pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody 

record 
Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 
Abel. Brother, give back ! thou shalt not 
touch my altar 
With violence : if that thou wilt adopt it, 
To try another sacrifice, 'tis thine. 

Cain. Another sacrifice! Give way, or 
else 

That sacrifice may be 

Abel. What mean'st thou ? 

Cain. Give — 

Give way ! — thy God loves blood ! — then 

look to it: — 
Give way, ere he hath more ! 

Abel. ' In his great name, 

I stand between thee and the shrine which 

hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyself. 

Stand back till I have strewed this turf along 

Its native soil: — else 

Abel {opposing him). I love God far more 
Than life.i 



1 [It is evident that Lord Byron had studied his 
subject very deeply; and, though he has varied a 



SCENE I.] 



CAW. 



611 



Cain {^strikino- him zuith a brand, on the 
temples, iv/iich he snatches from the altar). 
Then take thy life unto thy God, 
Since he loves Hv'es. 

Abel {falls). What hast thou done, my 

brother ? 
Cain. Brother ! 

Abel. Oh, God! receive thy servant, 

and 
Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
He did. — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; 
and tell 

Poor Zillah 

Cain {after a moment's stupefaction). My 
hand ! 'tis all red, and with — 
What? 

[.-i long pause. — Lookijtg slowly round. 

Where am I ? alone ! Where's Abel ? 

where 

Cain ? Can it be that I am he ? My brother. 

Awake! — why liest thou so on the green 

earth ? 
'Tis not the hour of slumber : — why so pale ? 

What, hast thou! thou wert full of life 

this morn ! 
Abel! I pray thee, mock me not! I smote 
Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why i 
Wouldst thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 
And only done to daunt me : — 'twas a blow — 
And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir ! 
Why, so — that's well ! — thou breath'st ! 

breathe upon me ! 
Oh, God ! Oh, God ! 

Abel {very faintlv). What's he who speaks 

of God ? 
Cain. Thy murderer. 

Abel. Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 
Comfort poor Zillah: — she has but one 

brother 
Now. [Abel dies.'^ 



little from, or gone a little beyond, the letter of 
Scripture, which is very concise, yet he has appar- 
ently entered with great exactness into the minds 
of Cain and Abel in this most interesting scene: 
and were it allowable to ascribe to the author of a 
dramatic work the principles or feelings of all or 
any of his characters, except as adopting them for 
his particular purpose, one would be at a loss to 
say, whether Lord Byron ought most to be identi- 
fied with Cain, or with Abel; so appropriately his 
he maintained the character of each. — Grant's 
" Notes on Cain" p. 401.] 

1 [MS.— 
" Too hard, but it was not my purpose — why."] 

- [The sacrifices of Abel and Cain follow: the 
first is accepted, the second rejected by Jehovah. 
Cain, in wrath, attempts to throw down the altars, 
is opposed by Abel, and strikes him with a half- 
burnt brand. As a whole, this scene is heavy and 
clumsily managed. It can hardly fail to strike the 
reader as a defect in poetry, no less tlian a depart- 
ure from history, that the event which is the catas- 
trophe of the drama, is no otherwise than inciden- 



Caln. And I none I — Who makes me 

brotherless ? 
His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our 

lids. 
His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ; 
And yet I feci it not. — His heart! — his 

heart ! — 
Let me see, doth it beat ? Methinks No I 

— no ! 

This is a vision, else I am become 
The native of another and worse world. 
The earth swims round me : — what is this ? — 

'tis wet ; 
\^Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at 

it. 
And yet there are no dews ! 'Tis blood — my 

blood — 
My brother's and my own ; and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with life. 
Since I have taken life from my own flesh ? 
But he can not be dead ! — is silence death ? 
No ; he will wake ; then let me watch by him. 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be quenched 
Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
What shall I saytohim? — my brother ! — No : 
He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to 

me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter ZlLLAH. 
Zillah. I heard a heavy sound ; what cari 
it be? 
'Tis Cain ; and watching by my husband. 

What 
Dost thou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? 

Oh, heaven ! 
What means this paleness, and yon stream ? 

— No, no! 

It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel! what's this? — who hath done this ? He 

moves not ; 
He breathes not : and his hands drop down 

from mine 

tally, we may say accidentally, produced by those 
which precede it. Cain, whose whole character is 
represented in Scripture as envious and malicious, 
rather than impious; — this Cain, as painted by 
Lord Byron, has no quarrel with his brother what- 
ever, nor, except in a single word, does he intimate 
any jealousy of him. Two acts, and half the third, 
are passed without our advancing a single step 
towards the conclusion; and Abel at length falls by 
a random blow given in a struggle of which the 
object is not his destruction, but the overthrow of 
Jehovah's altar. If we could suppose a reader to 
sit down to a perusal of the drama in ignorance of 
its catastrophe, he could scarcely be less surprised 
by its termination in such a stroke of chance-medley, 
than if Abel bad been made to drop <lown in an 
apoplexy, or Cain to die of grief over his body. — 
Bishop Heber.\ 



678 



CAW. 



[act III. 



With stony lifelessness ! A"ii ! cruel Cain ! 
Why cani'st thou not in time to save him 

from 
This violence ? Whatever hath assailed him, 
Thou wert the stronger, and should'st have 

stepped in 
Between him and aggression ! Father ! — 

Evel — 
Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 
\^Exit ZiLLAH, calluig on her Parents, etc. 
Cain i^solus). And who hath brought him 

there ? — I — who abhor 
The name of Death so deeply, that the thought 
Empoisoned all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — I have led him here, and giv'n 
My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim without my aid. 
1 am awake at last — a dreary dream 
Had maddened me; — but he shall ne'er 

awake ! 

Enter AV)A.U, EVE, ADAH, andZllA.An. 

Adam. A voice of woe from Zillah brings 
me here. — 
What do I see ? — 'Tis true ! — My son 1 — 

my son I 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[ To Eve. 

Eve. Oh! speak not of it now : the serpent's 
fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 

Adam. Who, 

Or what hath done this deed ? — speak, Cain, 

since thou 
Wert present ; was it some more hostile angel, 
Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

Eve. Ah ! a livid light 

Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! yon 

brand. 
Massy and bloody ! snatched from off the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with 

Adam. Speak, my son 1 

Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are, 
That we are not more miserable still. 

Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it m as not thou/ 

Eve. It was. 

I see it now — he hangs his gailty head. 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 

Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

Eve. Hear, Jehov^Vi i 

May the eternal serpent's curse be on him j 
For he was fitter for his seed than ours 
May all his days be desolate ! May — — 

Adah. Hol^:« 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy so 



Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother. 
And my betrothed. 

Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 
Zillah no husband — me no son/ — for thus 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us, as he broke 
That of his nature, in yon Oh death! 

death ! 
Why didst thou not take me, who first incurred 

thee ? 
Why dost thou not so now ? 

Ada?n. Eve! let r>ot this. 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

Eve {pointing to Cain). His will/ / the will 

of yon incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him. forth o'er the wilderness, like us,i 
From Eden, till his children do by him 
As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his 

path — 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the 

leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strewed 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his 

victim ! 
His waking a continual dread of death ! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip ! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die 

with ! 
And death itself wax something worse than 

death 
To him who first acquainted him with man ! 
Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is 

Cain, 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind. 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert their 

sire! 
May the grass wither from thy feet ! the woods 
Deny thee shelter! earth a home! the dust 
A grave ! the sun his light! and heaven lier 

God! 2 ^A".ir/7EVE 

Adam.. Cain! get thee forth : we dwell no 

more together. 
Depart! and ^eave the dead to me — I am 
Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 

1 [MS. — "Drive him forth o'er fiie world, as we 
were driven."] 
2 [The three last lines were not in the original 
MS." In forwarding them to Mr. Murray, to be 
j.dded to Eve's speech, Byron says — "There's as 
pretty a piece of imprecation for you, when jouicd 
to the lines already sent, as you may wish to meet 



SCENE I.;] 



cAm. 



679 



Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my 
father : do not 
Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 
Adam. I curse him not : his spirit be his 
curse. 
Come, Zillah! 

7.lllah. I must watch my husband's corse. 
Adam. We will return again, when he is 
gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah! 

7Jllah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 

And those lips once so warm — my heart! 
my heart ! 

\_Exeunt KT>kM. and ZlLhAK weeping. 
Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we must go 
forth. I am ready, 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me. 
To tne — thine own. 

Cain. Leave me 1 

Adah. Why, all have left thee. 

Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou ? Dost 
thou not fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this ? 

Adah. 1 fear 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee 

brotherless. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from within exclaims, Cain ! Cain ! 
Adah. Hear'st thou that voice ? 

The Voice within. Cain ! Cain ! 
Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone. 

Enter the ANGEL of the Lord. 

Angel. Where is thy brother Abel ? 
Cain. Am I then 

My brother's keeper ? 

Angel. Cain ! what hast thou done ? 

The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries 

out. 
Even from the ground, unto the Lord 1 — Now 

art thou 
"Cursed from the earth, which opened late her 

mouth 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash 

hand. 
"Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, 

it shall not 
Yield thee her strength ; a fugitive shalt thou 
Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 



with in the course of your business. But don't 
forget t!ie addition of these three lines, which are 
clinchers to Eve's speech. Let me know what 
Gifford thinks, for I have a good opinion of the 
piece, as prstry ; it is in my gay metaphysical style, 
and in the Manfred line."] 



Adah. This punishment is more than he 
can l)ear. 
Behold, thou drivest him from the face of 

earth. 
And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
'Twill come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
Shall slay him. 

Cain. Would they could! but who are 
they 
Shall slay me? Where are these on the lorn- 
earth 
As yet unpeopled ? 

Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 
Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, noi say 
That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 
Angel. Then he would but be what his 
father is. 
Did not the miik of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now see'st so besmeared with 

blood ? 
The fratricide might well engender parri- 
cides. — 
But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God 
And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance 

shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither ! 

Cain. What 

Wouldst thou with me ? 

Angel. To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast 
done. 
Cain. No, let me die ! 
Angel. It must not be. 

[ The Angel sets the mark on CAIN'S broiv. 
Cain. It bums 

My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 
Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn 
from the womb. 
As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but 

he 
Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he 
tended. 
Cain. After the fall too soon was 1 begctten ; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
The serpent, and my sire still mourned for 

Eden. 
That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 
With my own death redeem him from the 

dust — 
And why not so? let him leturn to-day, 
And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
By God the life to him he loved ; and taken ■ • 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. •'' 

Angel. Who shall heal murder? What is "• 
done is done! 



680 



CAIN. 



[act hi. 



Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
Unlike the last! \_The Angel disappears. 

Adah. He's gone, let us go forth ; 
I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah ! little knows he Avhat he weeps 

for! 
And I who have shed blood cannot shed 

tears ! 
But the four rivers l w^ould not cleanse my 

soul. 
Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 
Adah. If I thought that he would not, I 

would — 
Caift {i titer ruptin^ her). No, 
No more of threats: we have had too many 

of them : • 
Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with 

the dead ; 
Let us depart together,2 

Cain. Oh I thou dead 

And everlasting witness I whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven I what thou 

notu art 
I know not! but if thou see'st what /am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Fare- 
well ! 
I must not, dare not touch what I have made 

thee. 
I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, 

drained 
The same breast, clasped thee often to my own. 
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have 

done 
For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
But who hath dug that grave ? Oh, earth ! 

Oh, earth ! 

For all the ft-uits thou hast rendered to me, I 

Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 

[Adah stoops down and kisses the body of 

Abel. 

Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my 

brother. 
Has been thy lot I Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My ofifice is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed 

them ; 



^ The "four rivers" which flowed round Eden, 
and consequently the only waters with which Cain 
was acouainted upon earth. 

2 [The catastrophe is brought about with great 
dramatic skill and effect. The murderer is sorrow- 
ed and confounded, — his parents reprobate and 
renounce him, — his wife clings to him with eager 
and unhesitating affection; and they wander forth 
together into the vast solitude ot the universe. — 
Jeffrey.] 



But yet of all who mourn, none mourn like me. 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 
Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take 
our way ; 
'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 
Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and 
may our God 
Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 
Cain. And he who lieth there was child- 
less. I 
Have dried the fountain of a gentle race. 
Which might have graced his recent mar- 
riage couch, 
And might have tempered this stern blood of 

mine. 
Uniting with our children Abel's offspring ! 
O Abel ! 

Adah. Peace be with him ! 

Cain. But with me ! 

\Exeuntfi 



3 [The reader has seen what Sir Walter Scott's 
general opinion of *' Cain " was, in the letter ap- 
pended to the dedication, ante, p. 653. Moore's 
was conveyed to Byron in these words: — 

" I have read Foscari and Cain. The former 
does not please me so highly as Sardanapalus. It 
has the fault of all those violent Venetian stories; 
being tinnatural and improbable, and therefore, in 
spite of all your fine management of them, appeal- 
ing but remotely to one's sympathies. But Cain is 
wonderful — terrible — never to be forgotten. If I 
am not mistaken, it will sink deep into the world's 
heart; and while many will shudder at its blas- 
phemy, all must fall ' prostrate before its grandeur. 
Talk of .^schylus and his Prometheus! — here is 
the true spirit both of the Poet — and the Devil." 

Byron's answer to Moore on this occasion 
contains the substance of all that he ever thought 
fit to advance in defence of the assaulted points in 
his " Mystery : " — 

" With respect to religion," he says, " can I never 
convince you that / hold no such opinions as the 
characters in that drama, which seems to have 
frightened everybody? My ideas of a character 
may run away with me: like all imaginative men, 
I, of course, embody myself with the character 
■while I draw it, but not a moment after the pen is 
from off the paper." 

He thus alludes to the effects of the critical tem- 
pest e.xcited by " Cain," in the eleventh canto of 
" Don Juan." 

" In twice five years the ' greatest living poet,' 
Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 

Is called on to support his claim, or show it. 
Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 

Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it, 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king — 

Was reckoned, a considerable time. 

The Grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

" But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 

My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean seems 
Cain.'* 

We shall now present the reader with a few of 
the most elaborate summaries of the contemporary 



SCENE I.] 



CAIN. 



681 



critics, — favorable and unfavorable, — beginning 
with the Edinburgh Review. 

Mr. Jefirey says, — " Though ' Cain ' abounds in 
beautiful passages, and shows more power, per- 
haps, than any of the author's dramatical .composi- 
tions, we regret very much that it should ever have 
been published. It will give very great scandal 
and offence to pious persons in general, and may 
be the means of suggesting the most painful doubts 
and distressing perplexities to hundreds of minds 
that might never otherwise have been exposed to 
such dangerous disturbance. Lord Byron has no 
priestlike cant or priestlike reviling to apprehend 
from us. We do not charge him with being either 
a disciple or an apostle of Lucifer ; nor do we 
describe his poetry as a mere compound of blas- 
phemy and obscenity. On the contrary, we are 
inclined to believe that he wishes well to the hap- 
piness of mankind, and are glad to testify that his 
poems abound with 'sentiments of great dignity and 
tenderness, as well as passages of infinite sublimity 
and beauty." 

The Reviewer in the Quarterly was Bishop 
Heber. His article ends as follows: — 

" We do not think, that there is much vigor or 
poetical propriety in any of the characters of Lord 
Byron's Mystery. Eve, on one occasion, and one 
only, expresses herself with energy, and not even 
then with any great depth of that maternal feeling 
which the death of her favorite son was likely to 
excite in her. Adam moralizes without dignity. 
Abel is as dull as he is pious. Lucifer, though his 
first appearance is well conceived, is as sententious 
and sarcastic as a Scotch metaphysician; and the 
gravamina which drive Cain into impiety are cir- 
cumstances which could only produce a similar 
effect on a weak and sluggish mind, — the necessity 
of exertion and the fear of death ! Yet, in the hap- 
piest climate of earth, and amid the early vigor of 
nature, it would be absurd to describe (nor has 
Lord Byron so described it) the toil to which Cain 
can have been subject as excessive or burdensome. 
And he is made too happy in his love, too extrava- 
gantly fond of his wife and child, to have much 
leisure for those gloomy thoughts which belong to 
disappointed ambition and jaded licentiousness. 
Nor, though there are some passages in this drama 
of no common power, is the general tone of its 
poetry so excellent as to atone for these imperfec- 
tions of design. The dialogue is cold and con- 
strained. The descriptions are like the shadows of 
a phantasmagoria, at once indistinct and artificial. 
Except Adah, there is no person in whose fortunes 
we are interested; and we close the book with no 
distinct or clinging recollection of any single pas- 
sage in it, and with the general impression only 
that Lucifer has said much and done little, and that 
Cain has been unhappy without grounds and wicked 
without an object. 13ut if, as a poem, Cain is little 
qualified to add to Lord Byron's reputation, we are 
unfortunately constrained to observe that its poeti- 
cal defects are the very smallest of its demerits. It 
is not, indeed, as some both of its admirers and its 
enemies appear to have supposed, a direct attack 
on Scripture and on the authority of Moses. The 
expressions of Cain and Lucifer are not more oRen- 
sive to the ears of piety than such discourses must 
necessarily be, or than Milton, without offence, 
has put into the mouths of beings similarly situ- 
ated." 



The following extract is from Mr. Campbell's 
Magazine: — 

" ' Cain,' is altogether of a higher order than 
' Sardanapalus ' and the ' Two Foscari.' Lord 
Byron has not, indeed, fulfilled our expectations of 
a gigantic picture of the first murderer; for there 
is scarcely any passion, except the immediate ag- 
ony of rage, which brings on the catastrophe ; and 
Cain himself is little more than the subject of super- 
natural agency. This piece is essentially nothing 
but a vehicle for striking allusions to the mighty 
abstractions of Death and Life, Eternity and Time; 
for vast but dim descriptions of the regions of space, 
and for daring disputations on that great problem, 
the origin of evil. The groundwork of the argu- 
ments on the awful subjects handled is very com- 
mon-place; but they are arrayed in great majesty 
of language, and conducted with a frightful audac- 
ity. The direct attacks on the goodness of God 
are not, perhaps, taken apart, bolder than some 
passages of Milton; but they inspire quite a differ- 
ent sensation; because, in thinking of Paradise 
Lost, we never regard the Deity, or Satan, as other 
than great adverse powers, created by the imagina- 
tion of the poet. The personal identity which Mil- 
ton has given to his spiritual intelligences, — the 
local habitations which he has assigned them, — the 
material beauty with which he has invested their 
forms, — all these remove the idea of impurity from 
their discourses. But we. know nothing of Lord 
Byron's Lucifer, except his speeches: he is in- 
vented only that he may utter them; and the whole 
appears an abstract discussion, held for its own sake, 
not maintained in order to serve the dramatic con- 
sistency of the persons. He has made no attempt 
to imitate Milton's plastic power; — that power by 
which our great poet has made his Heaven and 
Hell, and the very regions of space, sublime reali- 
ties, palpable to the imagination, and has traced the 
lineaments of his angelic messengers with the pre- 
cision of a sculptor. The Lucifer of ' Cain ' is a 
mere bodiless abstraction, — the shadow of a dog- 
ma; and all the scenery over which he presides is 
dim, vague, and seen only in faint outline. There 
is, no doubt, a very uncommon power displayed, 
even in this shadowing out of the ethereal journey 
of the spirit and his victim, and in the vast sketch 
of the world of phantasms at which they arrive : 
but they are utterly unlike the massive grandeurs 
of Milton's creation. We are far from imputing 
intentional impiety to Lord Byron for this Mystery: 
nor, though its language occasionally shocks, do 
we apprehend any dangerwill arise from its perusal." 

So much for the professed Reviewers. We shall 
conclude with a passage from Sir Egerton Brydges's 
" Letters on the Character and Genius of Lord 
Byron : " — 

" I remember, when I first read ' Cain,' I thought 
it, as a composition, the most enchanting and irre- 
sistible of all Lord Byron's works; and I think so 
still. Some of the sentiments, taken detachedly, 
and left unanswered, are no doubt dangerous, and 
therefore ought not to have been so left; but the 
class of readers whom this poem is likely to interest 
are of so very elevated a cast, and the effect of the 
poetry is to refine, spiritualize, and illumine the 
imagination with such a sort of unearthly'sublimity, 
that the mind of these, 1 am persuaded, will become 
too strong to incur any taint thus predicted, from 
the defect which has been so much insisted on." 



HEAVEN AND EARTH; A MYSTERY, 

FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENeSIS, CHAP. VI. : " AND IT CAME Tfl 

PASS . . . THAT THE SONS OF GOD SAW THE DAUGHTERS OF MEN THAT THEY 

WERE FAIR ; AND THEY TOOK THEM WIVES OF ALL WHICH THEY CHOSE." 

" And woman wailing for her demon lover." — Coleridge. 



INTRODUCTION. 

" Heaven and Earth" was written at Ravenna, in October, 1821. In forwarding it to Mr. Murray, . 
in the following month. Lord Byron says: — " Enclosed is a lyrical drama, entitled ' A Mystery.' You : 
will find it pious enough, I trust — at least some of the chorus might have been written by Sternhold and ' 
Hopkins themselves for that, and perhaps for melody. As it is longer, and more lyrical and Greek, than ; 
I intended at first, I have not divided it into acts, but called what I have sent Part First; as there is a t 
suspension of the action which may either close there without impropriety, or be continued in a way that ' 
I have in view. I wish the first part to be published before the second; because, if it don't succeed, it i» ! 
better to stop there, than to go on in a fruitless experiment." 1 

Though without delay revised by Mr. Gifibrd, and printed, this "First Part" was not published till \ 
1822, when it appeared in the second number of the " Liberal." The " Mystery " was never completed. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



ANGELS. 

Samiasa. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael the Archangel. 



MEN. 

Noah and his Sons. 

I RAD. 
JAPHET. 



WOMEN. 

Anah. 
Aholibamah. 



Chorus of Spirits of the Earth. — Chorus of Mortals. 



PART I. 
Scene I.^ — A woody and mountainous dis- 
trict near Mount Ararat, — Ji>«<?, midnight. 

Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 

Anah. Our father sleeps: it is the hour 
when they 
Who love us are accustomed to descend 



' [The great power of this " Mystery" is in its 
fearless and daring sinif)licity. Lord Byron faces 
at once all the gr.iiulciir of liis sublime subject. 



Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : t— 
How my heart beats I 

Aho. Let us proceed upon 

Our invocation. 

Anah. But the stars are hidden. 

I tremble. 

Aho. So do I, but not with fear 

Of aught save their delay. 

Anahy^ My sister, though ^ 



He seeks for nothing, but it rises before him in its 
death-doomed magnificence. Man, or angel, or 
demon, the being who mourns, or laments, 01 ex- 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



683 



I love Azaziel more than oh, too much ! 

What was I going to say ? my heart grows 
impious. 
Aho. And where is the impiety of loving 
Celestial natures ? 

Anah. But, Aholibamah, 

T love our God less since his angel loved me : 
This cannot be of good; and tliough I know 

not 
That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Aho. Then wed thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin! 
There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee 

long: 
Marry, and bring forth dust ! 

Anah. I should have loved 

Azaziel not less were he mortal ; yet 
I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him. 
And when I think that his immortal wings 
W^ill one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
Of the poor child of clay which so adored him. 
As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : 
His grief will be of ages, or at least 
Mine would be such for him, were I the 

seraph, 
And he the perishable. 

Aho. Rather say. 

That he will single forth some other daughter 
Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 
A?iah. And if it should be so, and she loved 
him. 
Better thus than that he should weep for me. 
Aho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
All seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me. 
But to our invocation ! — 'Tis the hour. 
Anah. Seraph ! 

From thy sphere ! 
Whatever star contain thy glory ; 
In the eternal depths of heaven 
Albeit thou watchest with " the seven," i 
Though through space infinite and hoary 



,ults, is driven to speak by his own soul. The 
angels deign not to use many words, even to their 
beautiful paramours; and they scorn Noah and his 
sententious sons. The first scene is a woody and 
mountainous district, near Mount Ararat; and the 
time midnight. Mortal creatures, conscious of 
their own wickedness, have heard awful predictions 
of the threatened flood, and all their lives are dark- 
ened with terror. But the sons of God have been 
dwellers on earth, and women's hearts have been 
stirred by the beauty of these celestial visitants. 
Anah and Aholibamah, two of these angel-stricken 
maidens, come wandering along while others sleep, 
tT pour forth their invocntions to their demon lov- 
ers. They are of very different characters: Anah, 
soft, gentle, and submissive; Aholibamah, proud, 
impetuous, and aspiring — the one loving in fear, 
and the other in ambition. — IViUoii. 

' The archangels, said to be seven in number, 
and to occupy the eighth rank ni the celestial hier- 
archy. 



Before thy bright wings worlds be 
driven. 

Yet hear ! 
Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear! 

And though she nothing is to thee. 
Yet think that thou art all to her. 
Thou canst not tell — and never be 
Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
The bitterness of tears. 
Eternity is in thine years. 
Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes; 
With me thou canst not sympathize. 
Except in love, and there thou must 
Acknowledge that more loving dust 
Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 

The face of him who made thee great. 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, Seraph dear! 
Oh hear ! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing. 
That thou forget'st in thine eternity 

Her whose heart death could not keep 
from o'erflowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear; 
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my Seraph! that such thoughts 
appear, 
For sorrow is our element; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight. 

Though sometimes with our visions 
blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandoned 
quite. — 

Appear! Appear! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
And leave the stars to their own light. 
Aho. Samiasa ! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
Dispute with Him 
Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
Some wandering star, which shoots through 
the abyss, 
Wliose tenants dying, while their world is 

falling. 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
Or joining with the inferior cherubim. 
Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not : 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move 
thee. 



684 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



[part 1. 



Descend and share my lot ! 
Though I be formed of clay, 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Eden's streams, 
Thine immortality can not repay 

With love more warm than mine 
My love. There is a ray 

In me, which, though forbidden yet to 

shine, 
I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long: death and decay 
Our mother Eve bequeathed us — but 
my heart 
Defies it : though this life must pass away 
Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? 
Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 

I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and 
peal. 
Like the eternal thunders of the deep. 
Into my ears this truth — "Thou liv'st for 
ever! " 
But if it be in joy 
I know not, nor would know ; 
That secrets rest with the Almighty giver 
Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and 
woe, 

But thee and me he never can de- 
stroy ; 
Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we 
are 
Of as eternal essence, and must war 
With him if he will war with us : with thee 
I can share all things, even immortal 
sorrow ; 
For thou hast ventured to share life with me. 
And shall / shrink from thine eternity ? 
No! though the serpent's sting should pierce 

me through. 
And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil 
Around me still ! and I will smile. 
And curse thee not; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend; and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, re- 
main ! 1 
Anah. Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
Their bright way through the parted night. 
Aho. The clouds from off their pinions 
flinging, 
As though they bore to-morrow's light, 
Anah. But if our father see the sight ! 



1 [This invocation is extremely beautiful: its 
chief beauty lies in the continuous and meandering 
flow of its impassioned versification. At its close, 
— and it might well win down to earth errmg angels 
from heaven, — the maidens disappear in the mid- 
night darkness, hoping the presence of their celes- 
tial lovers. — Wilson^ 



Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

Anah. They come ! he comes ! — Azaziel ! 

Aho. Haste 

To meet them 1 Oh 1 for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there, 
To Samiasa's breast ! 

Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 

On Ararat's late secret crest 
A mild and many-colored bow, 
The remnant of their flashing path, 
Now shines ! and now, behold I it hath 
Returned to night, as rippling foam, 

Which the leviathan hath lashed 
From his unfathomable home. 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 

Subsides soon after he again hath dashed 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains 
sleep.2 

Aho. They have touched earth ! Samiasa ! 

Anah. My Azaziel ! 

\^Exeunt. 

Scene \\.^— Enter Irad and Japhet, 

Irad. Despond not: wherefore wilt thou 
wander thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night, 
And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars ? 
They cannot aid thee. 

Japh. But they soothe me — now 

Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being that is beautiful 
Becometh more so as it looks on beauty. 
The eternal beauty of undying things. 
Oh, Anah ! 

Irad. But she loves thee not. 

Japh. Alas ! 

Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me 
also. 

Japh. I feel for thee too. 

Irad. Let her keep her pride. 

Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 
It may be, time too will avenge it. 

Japh. Canst thou 

Find joy in such a thought ? 

Irad. Nor joy nor sorrow. 

I loved her well ; I would have loved her bet- 
ter, 

- [Lord Byron here takes a wide career, and is 
sometimes obscure and confused; but the flashes of 
fire continually break through, and illumine the 
clouds of smoke and vapor. The extravagance is 
dictated by passion. His muse, even in her rid- 
dles and digressions, has a svbil-like, prophetic 
{^x^i.— Jeffrey. -\ , , ,, ^. 

3 [In the second scene, Japhet, Noahs son, and 
Irad — the earthly and despised lovers of the two 
maidens — appear. Their talk is somewhat dull; 
which, we presume, is natural in such circum- 
stances. — Wilson. \ 



SCENE II.] 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



685 



Had love been met with love : as 'tis, I leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 

Japh. What destinies ? 

I) ad. I have some cause to think 

She loves another. 

Japh. Anah ! 

had. No ; her sister. 

Japh. What other ? 

bad. That I know not ; but her air, 

If not her w^ords, tells nie she loves another. 

Japh. Av, but not Anah : she but loves her 
God. 

Irad. Whate'er she loveth, so she loves 
thee not, 
What can it profit thee ? i 

Japh. True, nothing ; but 

I love. 

Irad. And so did I. 

Japh. And now thou lov'st not, 

Or think'st thou lov'st not, art thou happier ? 

Irad. Yes. 

Japh. I pity thee. 

Irad. Me 1 why ? 

Japh. For being happy 

Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy dis- 
temper. 
And would not feel as thou dost for more 

shekels 
Than ail our father's herds would bring if 

weighed 
Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
The yellow dust they try to barter with us, 
As if such useless and discolored trash, 
The refuse of the earth, could be received 
For milk, and wool, and fiesh, and fruits, and 



Go, 



to 



Our flocks and wilderness afford. — 

phet, 
Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl 

moon — 
I must back to my rest. 

Japh. And so would I 

If I could rest. 

Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 

Japh. No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, whose 
Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
To let the inner spirits of the earth 
Forth when they walk its surface. 

Irad. Wherefore so ? 

What wouldst thou there ? 

Japh. Soothe further my sad spirit 

With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
And 1 am hopeless. 



^ [This is one of those bitter, taunting sarcasms 
that escape Lord Byron's pen, in spite of himself. 
Japhet is afterwards introduced alone in a moun- 
tainous cave; and his soliloquy, bemoaning his 
own fate, and the approaching destruction of man- 
kind, is interrupted by a laugh of demons, rejoic- 
ing over the event. This scene is terrific. — Jeff- 



Irad. But 'tis dangerous ; 

Strange sounds and sights have peopled it 

with terrors. 
I must go with thee. 

Japh. Irad, no; believe me 

I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 
Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the 

more 
As not being of them : turn thy steps aside. 
Or let mine be with thine. 

Japh. No, neither, Irad ; 

I must proceed alone. 

Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 

{Exit Irad. 

Japh. (solus). Peace! I have sought it 

where it should be found, 
In love — with love, too, which perhaps de- 
served it ; 
And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
A weakness of the spirit — listless days. 
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
Have come upon me. Peace! what peace ? 

the calm 
Of desolation, and the stillness of 
The untrodden forest, only broken by 
The sweeping tempest through its groaning 

boughs ; 
Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
Of my mind overworn. The earth's grown 

wicked, 
And many signs and portents have proclaimed 
A change athand.an-dan o'erwhelming doom, 
To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah 1 
When the dread hour denounced shall open 

wide 
The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
The elements ; this bosom, which in vain 
Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more 

vainly, 
While thine Oh, God! at least remit to 

her 
Thy wrath ! for she is pure amidst the failing 
As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench, 
Although they obscure it for an hour. My 

Anah ! 
How would I have adored thee, but thou 

wouldst not. 
And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 
When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
By rock or shallow, the leviathan, 
Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 
Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 
[Ex/f Japhet. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

A^oah. Where is thy brother Japhet ? 

Shi'/n. He went forth, 

According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers 
nightly, 



6S6 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



[part I. 



Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest ; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 

Noah. What doth he there ? It is an evil 
spot 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things v^^orse 
Than even wicked men resort there : he 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
Although he could not wed her if she loved 

him, 
And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy 

hearts 
Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days. 
And that the hour approacheth, should in- 
dulge 
In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way — 
He must be sought for ! 

Shem. Go not forward, father : 

I will seek Japhet. 

Noah. Do not fear for me : 

All evil things are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah. — Let us on. 

Shem. To the tents of the father of the sis- 
ters ? 
Noah. No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 
{Exeunt NOAH and SHEM. 

Scene III. — The mountains. — A cavern, 
and the rocks of Caucasus. 

Japh. {solus). Ye wilds, that look eternal; 
and thou cave, 
Which seem' St unfathomable; and ye moun- 
tains. 
So varied and so terrible in beauty; 
Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
And toppling trees that twine their roots with 

stone 
In perpendicular places, where the foot 
Of man would tremble, could he reach them 

— yes, 
Ye look eternal I Yet, in a few days, 
Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, 

hurled 
Before the mass of waters; and yon cave, 
Which seems to lead into a lower world. 
Shall have its depths searched by the sweeping 

wave, 
And dolphins gambol in the lion's den! 
And man — Oh, men! my fellow-beings ! Who 
Shall weep above your universal grave, 
Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? My kins- 
men, 
Alas ! what am I better than ye are, 
That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall be 
Tlie pleasant places where I thought of Anah 
While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 
Scarce less beloved, where I desinairedforher ? 
And can it be ! — Shall yon exulting peak, 
Whose glittt-ring top is like a distant star. 
Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 



No more to have the morning sun break forth, 
And scatter back the mists in floating folds 
From its tremendous brow ? no more to have i 
Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, ' 
Leaving it with a crown of many hues ? 
No more to be the beacon of the world, 
For angels to alight on, as the spot 
Nearest the stars ? And can those words " no 

more" 
Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us, 
And the predestined creeping things reserved 
By my sire to Jehovah's bidding ? May 
He preserve thetn, and / ?tot have the power 
To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters 

from 
A doom which even some serpent, with his 

mate. 
Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolonged. 
To hiss and sting through some emerging 

world, 
Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose 

ooze 
Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until • 
The salt morass subside into a sphere 
Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 
The sole and undistinguished sepulchre, 
Of yet quick myriads of all life ? How much 
Breath will be stilled at once ! All beauteous 

world 
So young, so marked out for destruction, I 
With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 
And night by night, thy numbered days and 

nights : 
I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 
Whose love had made me love thee more; 

but as 
A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 
Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 
Such as — Oh God ! and canst thou — 

{He pauses.^ 

A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, and 

shouts of laughter — afterivards a Spirit 

passes. 

Japh. In the name 

Of the Most High, what art thou ? 

Spirit {laughs). Ha! ha! ha! 

Japh. By all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 

Spirit {laughs). Ha! ha! 

Japh. By the approaching deluge ! by the 
earth 
Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
The deep which will lay open all her foun- 
tains ! 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to 
seas, 

' [This soliloquy has the fault of being too long 
and wire-drawn. At its close, spirits rush from the 
cavern, and exult in the approaching calamity of 
the world : a dialogue ensues between Japhet and 
one of them, and a chorus is sung by a body of 
them, part of whigh is truly noble.— Campbell.\ 



SCENE III.] 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



687 



And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 
Spirit. Why weep'st thou ? 

Japh. For earth and all her children. 
Spirit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! \Spirit vanishes. 
Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of 
a world. 
The coming desolation of an orb, 
On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 
How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 
Why should they wake to meet it ? What is 

here. 
Which look like death in life, and speak like 

things 
Born ere this dying world ? They come like 
clouds! 

[ Various Spirits pass from the cavern. 
Spirit. Rejoice ! 

The abiiurred race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 

But listened to the voice 
Of knowledge without power, 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death I 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow. 
Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's 
sapping motion, 
Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-mor- 
row! 
Earth shall be ocean ! 
And no breath. 
Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
Angels shall tire their w ings, but find no spot : 
Not even a rock from out the liquid grave _ 

Shall lift its point to save. 
Or show the place where strong Despair hath 
died. 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
For the expected ebb which cometh not : 
All shall be void, 
Destroyed ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorred 
Children of dust be quenched ; and of each hue 
Of earth nought left but the unbroken blue ; 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall nought remain 
Unchanged, or of the level plain; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
All merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die. 
And sea and sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home ? 
Japh. {com inj^ forward). My sire ! 
Earth's seed shall not expire; 
Orriy the evil shall be put away 
From day. 



Avaunt ! ye exulting demons of the waste ! 
Who howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not 
destroy ; 

Hence! haste! 
Back to your inner caves ! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret place, 
And drive your sullen race 
Forth, to be rolled upon the tossing winds 
In restless wretchedness along all space! 
Spirit. Son of the saved ! 

When thou and thine have braved 
The wide and warring element ; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent, 
Shall thou and thine be good or happy ? — No! 
Thy new world and new race shall be of 

woe — 
Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride, 
The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
And art thcju not ashamed 

Thus to survive, 
And eat, and drink, and wive ? 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
Without such grief and courage, as should 
rather 
Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Than seek a shelter with thy favored father. 
And build thy city o'er the drowned earth's 
grave ? 

Who would outlive their kind, 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mine 
Hateth thine 
As of a different order in the sphere, 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here. 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 

Go, wretch ! and give 
A life like thine to other wretches — live ! 
And when the annihilating waters roar 

Above what they have done, 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more. 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one! 
Thyself for being his son ! 

Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 
Rejoice ! 
No more the human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 
With prayer; 
No more 
Shall they adore; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 
The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is vice : 



688 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



[part l 



We, we shall view the deep's salt sources 

poured 
Until one element shall do the work 
Of all in chaos ; until they, 
The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall 

lurk 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The deep shall follow to their latest lair; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
Shall cease to prey on man and on each other, 

And tlie striped tiger shall lie down to die 
Beside the lamb, as though he were his 
brother ; 

Till all things shall be as they were, 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation, 
To generate new nations for his use ; 

This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 
When the hot sun hath baked the reeking 
soil 
Into a world, shall give again to Time 
New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — 

crime — 
With all companionship of hate and toil, 

Until 

Japh. ( mterrupting them ) . The eternal will 
Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil ; and redeem 
Unto himself all times, all things; 
And, gathered under his almighty winge. 
Abolish hell! 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth. 

Her Eden in an endless paradise. 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
And even the very demons shall do well! 
Spirits. And when shall take effect this 

wondrous spell ? 
Japh. When the Redeemer cometh ; first 
in pain, 

And then in glory. 
Spirit. Meantime still struggle in th.;- mor- 
tal chain. 

Till earth wax hoary ; 
War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in 
vairi, 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
New times, new climes, new arts, new men; 

but still. 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill. 
Shall be amongst your race in different forms ; 
But the same moral storms 
Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giants' graves,! 

^ "And there were giants in the earth in those 
days, and after; mighty men, which were of old, 
men of renowo." — Ge7((^i^, 



Chorus of Spirits. 

Brethren, rejoice ! 
Mortal, farewell ! 
Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell; j 

The winds, too, plume their piercing wings; [ 
The clouds have nearly filled their springs; 
The fountains of the great deep shall be 
broken, 
And heaven set wide her windows ;2 while 
mankind 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous to- 
ken — 
Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
We hear the sound they cannot hear. 
The mustering thunders of the threaten- 
ing sphere ; 
Yet a few hours their coming is de- 
layed — 
Their flashing banners, folded still on 

high. 
Yet undisplayed, 
Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 

Howl! howl! oh Earth! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : ' 
Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow ! 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and 
shells. 
The little shells, of ocean's least things be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring 

dwells — 
How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea! 
And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
Unanswered, save by the encroaching swell ; — 
While man shall long in vain for his broad 
• wings. 

The wings which could not save : — 
Where could he rest them, while the whole 
space brings 
Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his 
grave? 

Brethren, rejoice 1 
And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 

All die. 
Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 

The seed of Seth, 
Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death. 
But of the sons of Cain 
None shall remain ; 
And all his goodly daughters 
Must lie beneath the desolating waters — 
Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid 
Along the wave, the cruel heaven upbraid. 
Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fair. 
It is decreed. 
All die! 



2 " The same day were all the fountains of the 
great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven 

were opened-" — /^*(^. 



SCEiVt ill.] 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



689 



And to the universal humnn cry 
The universal silence shall succeed! 
Fly, brethren, fly! 
But still rejoice ! 
We fell ! 
They fall ! 
So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from 
heU! 

[ The Spirits disappear, soaring upwards. 
Japh. {solus). God hath proclaimed the des- 
tiny of earth ; 
My father's ark of safety hath announced it; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
The scroll i of Enoch prophesied it long 
In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than thunder to the ear: 
And yet men listened not, nor listen ; but 
Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though 

so nigh. 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty 

purpose. 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air; 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted tex- 
ture ; 
The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when 
God said unto him, " Shine ! " and he broke 

forth 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
Unformed forefather of mankind — but roused 
Before the human orison the earlier 
Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
Which in the open firmament of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites : 
Their matins now draw nigh — the east is 

kindling ^- 
And they will sing ! and day will break ! Both 

near. 
So near the awful close ! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and day, 
After the bright course of a few brief mor- 
rows, — 
Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ? -- a chaos. 
Which was ere day; and which, renewed, 

makes time 
Nothing! for, without life, what are the 

hours ? 
No more to dust than is eternity 
Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
Without him, even eternity would be 
A void : without man, time, as made for man. 
Dies with man, and is swallowed in that deep 
Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 
Devoured by that which drowns his infant 
world. — 



_ ^ The book of Enoch, preserved by the Ethio- 
pians, is said by them to be anterior to the flood. 



What have we here ? Shapes of both earth 

and air ? 
No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
I cannot trace their features ; but their forms. 
How lovelily they move along the side 
Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist! 
And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
infernal immortality poured forth 
Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 
For which I have so often prayed — They 

come! 
Anah! oh, God! and with her 2 

Enter SaMIASA, AZAZIEL, ANAH, and AHO- 
LIBAMAH. 
Anah. Japhet ! 

Sam. Lo ! 

A son of Adam ! 

Aza. What doth the earth-born here. 

While all his race are slumbering ? 

Japh. Angel ! what 

Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be on 
high? 
Aza. Know'st thou not, or forget'st thou, 
that a part 
Of our great function is to guard thine 
earth ? 
Japh. But all good angels have forsaken 
earth. 
Which is condemned ; nay, even the evil fly 
The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be beloved ! 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those 

hours 
When no good spirit longer lights below ? 
Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee ; yet, 
yet 

Forgive me 

Japh. May the Heaven, which soon no 
more 
Will pardon, do so! for thou &rt greatly 
tempted. 
Aho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of 
Noah ! 
We know thee not. 

Japh. The hour may come when thou 

May'st know me better ; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been. 



2 [The spirits disappear soaring upwards, and 
Japhet has again recourse to a very fine soliloquy. 
He is now joined by Anah and Aholibamah, who 
are accompanied by the two angels, Samiasa and 
Azaziel. i'he angels seem soMiewhat sulky, and 
are extremely laconic; they look like Quakers yet 
unmoved by the spirit — dull dogs. But Japhet 
takes them to task very severely. Noah and Shem 
now join the party, and a conversation ensues be- 
tween them all, neither very spirited nor very edi- 
fying — when enters Raphael the Archangel, who 
holds a highly poetical dialogue with Samiasa. — 
Wilson.-\ 



690 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



[part 



Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath ever 
been 
Upright before his God, whate'er thy gifts, 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mixed with 

wrath. 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong ? 

Japh. Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs ; 
but thou 
Say'st well, though she be dust, I did not, 

could not, 
Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the 

• power 
To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
Children of Cain ? 

Aza. From what ? 

Japh. And is it so, 

That ye too know not ? Angels ! angels ! ye 
Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now 

must 
Partake his punishment ; or, at the least. 
My sorrow. 

Sam. Sorrow 1 I ne'er thought till now 

To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 

Japh. And hath not the Most High ex- 
pounded them ? 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 

Aho. So be it ! 

If they love as they are loved, they will not 

shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa! 

Anah. Sister ! Sister ! speak not 

Thus. 

Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 

Anah. Yes, for thee : 

I would resign the greater remnant of 
This little life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

Japh. It is for /^m, then! for the seraph 
thou 
Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast 

not 
Left thy God too ! for unions like to these, 
Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
Be happy or be hallowed. We are sent 
Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 
Are made to minister on high unto 
The Highest : but if he can save thee, soon 
The hour will come in which celestial aid 
Alone can do so. 

Anah. Ah 1 he speaks of death. 

Sam. Of death to us ! and those who are 
with us ; 
But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
Could smile. 

Japh. I grieve not for myself, nor fear ; 

I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 



Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
His power was greater of redemption ! or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers. 
Who could alone have made mine happy, 

she. 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could 

share 
The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

Aho. And dost thou think that we. 

With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, bloo I 
Warm in our veins, — strong Cain! who 

was begotten 
In Paradise — would mingle with Seth's chil- 
dren ? 
Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril! 
Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
From the beginning, and shall do so ever, 
Japh. I did not speak to thee, Aholi- 

bamah ! 
Too much of the forefather whom thou vaunt- 

est 
Has come down in that haughty blood which 

springs 
From him who shed the first, and that a 

brother's ! 
But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
Albeit thou art not ; 'tis a word I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My 

Anah ! 
Thou who dost rather make me dream that 

Abel 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, - 

For all of them are fairest in their favor 

Aho. {interrupting him). And wouidst 

thou have her like our father's foe 
In mind, in soul ? If/ partook thy thought, 
And dreamed that aught oiAbelw^s in her / — 
Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest 

strife. 

Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so ! 

Aho. " But 

He slew not Seth : and what hast thou to do 

With other deeds between his God and him ?' 

Japh. Thou spcakest well : his God hath 

judged him, and 
I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

Aho. He was our father's father; 

The eldest born of man, the strongest, bravest. 
And most enduring: — Shall I blush for him 
From whom we had our being ? Look upon 
Our race \ behold their stature and their 

beauty. 
Their courage, strength, and length of 

days 

Japh. They are numbered. 



SCENE III.] 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



691 



Aho. Be it so ! but while yet their hours 
endure, 
I glory in my brethren and our fathers. 

Japh. My sire and race but glory in their 
God, 
Anah ! and thou ? 

Anah. Whate'er our God decrees, 

The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
And will endeavor patiently to obey. 
But could I dare to pray in his dread hour 
Of universal vengeance (if such should be). 
It would not be to live, alone exempt 
Of all my house. My sister! oh, my sister! 
What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
The brightest future, without the sweet past — 
Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
The things which sprang up with me, like the 

stars, 
Making my dim existence radiant with 
Soft hghts which were not mine ? Aholi- 

bamah ! 
Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find 

it: 
I abhor death, because that thou must die. 

Aho. What, hath this dreamer, with his 
father's ark, 
The bugbear he hath built to scare the world. 
Shaken my sister ? Are we not the loved 
Of seraphs ? and if we were not, must we 
Cling to a son of Noah for our lives ? 

Rather than thus But the enthusiast 

dreams 
The worst of dreams, the fantasies engendered 
By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm 

earth, 
And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 
Who shall do this ? 

Japh. He whose one word produced them. 

Aho. Who heard that word ? 

Japh. The universe, which leaped 

To life before it. Ah! smilest thou still in 

scorn ? 
Turn to thy seraphs : if they attest it not. 
They are none. 

Sam. Aholibamah, own thy God ! 

Aho. I have ever hailed our Maker, Sa- 
miasa, 
As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 

Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? 
Even 
He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. 

Aho. 'Tis said so. 

Japh. It is even so. 

Enter NOAH a?id Shem. 

Noah. Japhet! What 

Dost thou here with these children of the 
wicked ? 



Dread'st thou not to partake their coming 
doom ? 

Japk. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earth-born being ; and behold, 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

Noah. These are they, then 

Who leave the throne of God, to take them 

wives 
From out the race of Cain ; the sons of 

heaven. 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 

Aza. Patriarch ! 

Thou hast said it. 

Noah. Woe, woe, woe to such communion ! 
Has not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 

Sam. Was not man made in high Jeho- 
vah's image ? 
Did God not love what he had made ? And 

what 
Do. we but imitate and emulate 
His love unto created love ? 

Noah. I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind. 
Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
Has deigned to commune with me, and reveal 
His judLjments, I reply, that the descent 
Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
Unto a perishable and perishing. 
Even on the very eve of perishing, world. 
Cannot be good. 

Aza. What ! though it were to save ? 

Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
What he who made you glorious hath con- 
demned. 
Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
And beautiful they are, but not the less 
Condemned. 

Japh. Oh, father ! say it not. 

Noah. Son ! son ! 

If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist : they soon shall cease to be ; 
While thou shalt be the sire of a new world. 
And better. 

Japh. Let me die with this, and them! 

Noah. Thou shoiildst for such a thought, 
but shalt not ; he 
Who can redeems thee. 

Sam. And why him and thee, 

More than what he, thy son, prefers to both? 

Noah. Ask him who made thee greater 
than myself 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Almightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears! 

Enter RAPHAEL 1 the Archangel. 



[In the original MS. " Michael." " I return 
you," says Byron to Mr. M., " the revise. I have 
softened the part to which Gifford objected, and 



692 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



[part 1. 



Raph. Spirits ! 

Whose seat is near the throne, 
What do ye here ? 
Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
Now that the hour is near 
When earth must be alone ? 
Return ! 
Adore and burn 
In glorious homage with the elected " seven." 
Your place is heaven, 
Satn. Raphael ! 

The first and fairest of the sons of God, 
How long hath this been law, 
That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 

Earth ! which oft saw 
Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
The world he loved, and made 
For love ; and oft have we obeyed 
His frequent mission with delighted pinions : 
Adoring him in his least works displayed ; 
Watching this youngest star of his dominions ; 
And, as the latest birth of his great word, 
Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
Why is thy brow severe ? 
And wherefore speak'st thou of destruction 
near ? 
Raph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
In their true place, with the angelic choir. 
Written in fire 
They would have seen 
Jehovah's late decree, 
And not inquired their Maker's breath of me : 
But ignorance must ever be 
A part of sin ; 
And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow 
less 

As they wax proud within ; 
For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 
When all good angels left the world, ye 
stayed 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 
By mortal feelings for a mortal maid : 
But ye are pardoned thus far, and replaced 
With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away ! 
Or stay. 
And lose eternity by that delay. 
Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden, 
Dost thou not err as we 
In being here ? 
Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit 

sphere, 
In the great name and at the word of God. 
Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less 
dear 
That which I came to do : till now we trod 
Together the eternal space ; together 



changed the name of Michael to Raphael, who was 
an angel of gentler sympathies." — Byron Letters, 
July 6, 1822.] 



Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must 
die! 
Herrace, returned into her womb, must wither, 
And much which she inherits : but oh ! why 
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroyed, 
Without involving ever some vast void 
In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 

In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Our brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
Rather than longer worship dared endure ! 
But ye who still are pure ! 
Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 

Think how he was undone ! 
And think if tempting man can compensate 
For heaven desired too late ? 
Long have I warred. 
Long must I war 
With him who deemed it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who midst the cherubim 
Made him as suns to a dependent star. 
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 
I loved him — beautiful ^he was: oh 
heaven ! 
Save his who made, what beauty and what 

power 
Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
In which he fell could ever be forgiven' 
The wish is impious : but, oh ye ! 
Yet undestroyed, be warned ! Eternity 

With him, or with his God, is in your choice : 
He hath not tempted you ; he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt : 

But man hath listened to his voice. 
And ye to woman's — beautiful she is. 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
The snake but vanquished dust ; but she will 

draw 
A second host from heaven, to break heaven's 
law. 

Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
Ye cannot die ; 
But they . 
Shall pass away. 
While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 

For perishable clay, 
Whose memory in your immortality 

Shall long outlast the sun which gave 
them day. 
Think how your essence differeth from theirs 
In all but suffering ! why partake 
The agony to which they must be heirs — 
Born to be ploughed with years, and sown 

with cares. 
And reaped by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
Even had their days been left to toil their 

path 
Through time to dust, unshortened by God's 

wrath. 
Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 

Aho. Let them fly ! 

I hear the voice which says that all must die 



5CENE III.] 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



693 



Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs 
died; 

And that on high 
An ocean is prepared, 
While from below 
The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared, 
It seems ; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister! since it is so, 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
For the remission of one hour of woe, 
Let us resign even what we have adored, 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the 
sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismayed, 
And wailing less for us than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall. 

And, when the fatal waters are allayed, 
Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore. 
Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our portion is to die. 
And yours to live for ever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity, 
Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 
Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond his will ; 
Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
For all the mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly! 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on 
high, 

Samiasa ! 
And if I look up with a tearless eye, 

'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep, — 
Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable deep ! 
Anah. And must we die ? 

And must I lose thee too, 

Azaziel ? 
Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true ! 
And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
The blow, though not unlooked for, falls as 
new: 

But yet depart I 
Ah ! why ? 
Yet let me not retain thee — fly! 
My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
Too much already hast thou deigned 
To one of Adam's race! 
Our doom is sorrow : not to us alone. 
But to the spirits who have not disdained 
To love us, Cometh anguish with disgrace. 
The first who taught us knowledge hath been 
hurled 
From his once archangelic throne 



Into some unknown world : 
And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
Thou shalt not suffer woe 
For me. Away ! nor weep I 
Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
May'st suffer more, not weeping : then forget 
Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 
Japk. Oh say not so ! 

Father! and thou, archangel, thou! 
Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
That pure severe serenity of brow : 

Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 

Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace! 
If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong ! , 
Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 

Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint. 
Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for 
thee ? 

Such would it be 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
And bear what Adam's race must bear, and 
can. 
yaph. Ay, father ! but when they are gone, 
And we are all alone. 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 
The depth beneath us hides our own dear 
land. 
And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
Buried in its immeasurable breast. 
Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then 

command ? 
Can we in desolation's peace have rest ? 
Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 
Yet while 'tis time ! 
Renew not Adam's fall : 

Mankind were then but twain. 
But they are numerous now as are the waves 

And the tremendous rain, 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would 
their graves. 
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
Noah. Silence, vain boy I each word of 
thine's a crime. 
Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 
Kaph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak in 
passion ! Ye ! 
Who are, or should be, passionless and pure. 
May now return with me. 

Sam. It may not be : 

We have chosen, and will endure. 
Raph. Say'st thou ? 

Aza. He hath said it, and I say, Amen. 

Raph. Again ! 

Then from this hour, 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 



691 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



[part 



And aliens from your God, 
Farewell ! 
Japh. Alas ! where shall they dwell ? 

Hark, hark! Deep sounds, and deeper still. 
Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
Th-re's not a breath of wind up^n the hill. 
Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blos- 
som : 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
Noah. Hark, hark! the sea-birds cry ! 
In clouds they overspread the lurid sky. 
And hover round the mountain, where before 
Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 

Yet dared to soar, 
Even when the waters waxed too fierce to 
brave, 
soon it shall be their only shore, 
And then, no more ! 
Japh. The sun ! the sun ! 

He riseth, but his better light is gone ; 
And a black circle, bound 
His glaring disk around, 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath 
shone! 
The clouds return into the hues of night. 
Save where their brazen-colored edges streak 
The verge where brighter morns were wont 
to break. 
Noah. And lo ! yon flash of light, 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 

It cometh ! hence, away ! 
Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
Hence to where our all-hallowed ark uprears 
Its safe and wreckless sides ! 
Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides ! 
Noah. Must we not leave all life to such ? 

Begone ! 
Japh. Not I. 

Noah. Then die 

With them ! 
How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
And seek to save what all things now con- 
demn, 

In overwhelming unison 

With just Jehovah's wrath ! 
Japh. Can rage and justice join in the 

same path ? 
Noah. Blasphemer! darest thou murmur 

even now ? 
Raph. Patriarch, be still a father ! smoothe 

thy brow : 
Thv son, despite his folly, shall not sink : 
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 
With sobs the salt foam of the swelling 
waters ; 
But be, when passion passeth, good as thou. 
Nor perish lilie heaven's children with man's 

daughters. 
Aho. The tempest cometh ; heaven and 
earth unite 
For the annihilation of all life. 



Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the Eternal Might ! 
Sam. But ours is with thee ; we will bear 

ye far 
To some untroubled star. 
Where thou and Anah shalt partake our lot : 
And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth. 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 
Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my 
place of birth. 
And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye 

are not. 
Who shall dry up my tears ! 

Aza. Thy spirit-lord. 

Fear not; though we are shut from heaven. 
Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be 
driven. 
Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as 
thy deeds 
Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming 

sword, 
Which chased the first-born out of Paradise, 
Still flashes in the angelic hands. 

Aza. It cannot slay us : threaten diist with 
death, 
And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. 
What are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 
Raph. The moment cometh to approve 
thy strength ; 
And learn at length 
How vain to war with what thy God com- 
mands! 
Thy former force was in thy faith. 

Enter Mortals, fiying for refuge. 

Chorus of Mortals. 

The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! 

oh God! 
What have we done ? Yet spare ! 
Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth theii 
prayer ! 
The dragon crawls from out his den, 
To herd, in terror, innocent with men ; 
And the birds scream their agony through airr 
Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 
Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair! 
Hear not man only but all nature plead ! 
Raph. Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched 
sons of clay, 
I cannot, must not, aid you. 'Tis decreed ! 
{Exit Raphael. 
Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures 
for their prey, 
While others, fixed as rocks, await the word 
At which their wrathful vials shall be poured, 
No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath 

risen ; 
In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
Hath wound itself around the dying air.2 

1 rin his description of the deluge, which is a 



SCENE III.] 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



695 



Aza. Come, Anah ! quit this chaos-founded 
prison, 
To which the elements again repair. 
To turn it into what it was : beneath 
The shelter of tliese wings thou slialt be safe, 
As was the eagUi's nestling once within 
Its mother's. — i^et tlie coming chaos chafe 
With all its elements 1 Heed not their din ! 
A brighter worW than this, where thou shalt 

breathe 
Ethereal life, will we explore : 
These darkened clouds are not the only skies. 
[AZAZIEL and Samiasa/j off, and disap- 
pear with Anah and Aholibamah. 
Japh. They are gone ! They have disap- 
peared amidst the roar 
Of the forsaken world ; and never more, 
Whether they live, or die with all earth's life, 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Anah unto these eyes.i 

Chorus of Mortals. 

Oh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
What! wilt thou leave us all — all — all be- 
hind? 
While safe amidst the elemental strife. 
Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 

A Mother {offering her ififatit to JaPHET). 
Oh let this child embark! 
I brought him forth in woe. 

But thought it joy 
To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
Why was he born ? 
What hath he done — 
My unweaned son — 
To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
What is there in this milk of mine, that death 
Should stir all heaven and earth up to de- 
stroy 

My boy, 
And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ? 
Save him, thou seed of Seth ! 
Or cursed be — with him who made 
Thee and thy race, for which we are be- 
trayed ! 
Japh. Peace ! 'tis no hour for curses, but 
for prayer. 



Chorus of Mortals. 

For prayer ! ! ! 
And where 



varied and recurring masterpiece, — (we hear it 
foretold, and we see it come,) — Lord Byron appears 
to us to have had an eye to Poussin's celebrated 
picture, with the sky hanging like a weight of lead 
upon the waters, the sun quenched and lurid, the 
rocks and trees upon them gloomily watching their 
fate, and a few figures struggling vainly with the 
overwhelming waves. — Jeffrey.'] 

1 [The despair of the mortal lovers for the loss of 
their mortal mistresses is well and pathetically ex- 
pressed. — Jejff'rey.'^ 



Shall prayer ascend. 
When the swoln clouds unto the mountains 
bend 

And burst, 
And gushing oceans every barrier rend. 
Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
Accursed 
Be he who made thee and thy sire! 
We deem our curses vain ; we must expire ; 

But as we know the worst. 
Why should our hymn be raised, our knees 

be bent 
Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
Since we must fall the same ? 
If he hath made earth, let it be his shame. 
To make a world for torture. — Lo! they 
come. 
The loathsome waters, in their rage I 
And with their roar make wholesome nature 
dumb 
The forest's trees (coeval with the hour 
When Paradise upsprung. 
Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her 
dower, 
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung). 

So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 
Are overtopped, 

Their summer blossoms by the surges lopped, 
Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 

They meet the seas. 
And shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 
Fly, son of Noah, fly 1 and take thine ease 
In thine allotted ocean-tent ; 
And view, all floating o'er the element, 
The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
Then to Jehovah raise 
Thy song of praise ! 
A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
Who die in the Lord ! 
And though the waters be o'er earth out- 
spread, 

Yet, as his word. 
Be the decree adored I 
He gave me life — he taketh but 
The breath which is his own : 
And though these eyes should be for ever shut. 
Nor longer this weak voice before his throne, 
Be heard in supplicating tone. 

Still blessed be the Lord 
For what is past. 
For that which is ; 
For all are his. 
From first to last — 
Time — space — eternity — life — death — 
The vast known and immeasurable un- 
known. 
He made, and can unmake; 

And shall /, for a little gasp of breath. 
Blaspheme and groan ? 
No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith. 
Nor quiver, though the universe may quake! 



696 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



Chorus of Mortals. 
Where shall we fly ? 
Not to the mountains high; 
For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 

To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
Already grasps each drowning hill, 
Nor leaves an unsearched cave. 

Enter a Woman. 
Woman. Oh, save me, save ! 
Our valley is no more : 

My father and my father's tent. 
My brethren and my brethren's herds. 
The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday 
bent. 
And sent forth evening songs from sweetest 

birds. 
The little rivulet which freshened all 
Our pastures green. 
No more are to be seen. 
When to the mountain cliff I climbed this mom, 
I turned to bless the spot. 
And not a leaf appeared about to fall ; — 

And now they are not ! — 
Why was I born ? 

Japii. To die ! in youth to die ; 

And happier in that doom, 
Than to behold the universal tomb 

Which I 
Am thus condemned to weep above in vain. 
Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? i 
[ The waters rise : Men fly in very direction ; 
tjiany are overtake)! by the waves; the Cho- 
7-^us of Mortals disperses in search of safety 
tip the ?noiintains ; Japhet remains upon a 
rock, while the Ark floats towards him in 
the distance. 



' [This poem, or rather first part of a poem, for so 
it is stated to be, carries with it the peculiar impress 
of the writer's genius. It displays great vigor, 
and even a severity of style, throughout, which is 
another proof, if proof were needed, that elevation 
of writing is to be obtained only by a rigid regard 
to simplicity. .It may be perused without shocking 
the feelings of the sensitive, or furnishing an object 
for the discriminating morality of the Lord Chan- 
cellor. Lord Byron has evidently endeavored to 
sustain the interest of this poem, by depicting 
natural, but deep drawn thoughts, in all their fresh- 
ness and intensity, with as little fictitious aid as 
possible. Nothing is circumlocutory: there is no 
going about and about to enter at length upon his 
object, but he impetuously rushes into it at once. 
All over the poem there is a gloom cast suitable to 
-the subject: an ominous fearful hue, like that which 
Poussin has flang over his inimitable picture of the 



Deluge. We see much evil, but we dread more. 
All is out of earthly keeping, as the events of the 
time are out of the course of nature. Man's wicked- 
ness, the perturbed creation, fear-struck mortals, 
dem.ons passing to and fro in the earth, an over- 
shadowing solemnity, and uneSrthly loves, form 
together the materials. That it ^as faults is obvi- 
ous: prosaic passages, and too rmich tedious solilo- 
quizing: but there is the vigor and force of Byron 
to fling into the scale against these : there is much 
of the sublime in description, and the beautiful in 
poetry. Prejudice, or ignorance,»or both, may con- 
demn it; but, while true poetical feeling exists 
amongst us, it will be pronounced not unworthy 
of its distinguished author. — Cainpbell. 

It appears that this is but the first part of a poem; 
but it is likewise a poem, and a fine one too, within 
itself. We confess that we see little or nothing 
objectionable in it, either as to theological ortho- 
doxy, or general human feeling. It is solemn, 
lofty, fearful, wild, tumultuous, and shadowed all 
over with the darkness of a dreadful disaster. Of 
the angels who love the daughters of men we see 
little, and know less — ana not too much of the love 
and passion of the fair lost mortals. The incon- 
solable despair preceding and accompanying an 
incomprehensible catastrophe pervades the whole 
composition; and its expression is made sublime by 
the noble strain of poetry in which it is said or sung. 
Sometimes there is heaviness — dulness — as if it 
were pressed in on purpose; intended, perhaps, to 
denote the occasional stupefaction, drowsiness, and 
torpidity of soul produced by the impending destruc- 
tion upon the latest of the Antediluvians. But, on 
the whole, it is not unworthy of Lord Byron. — IVtl- 
son. 

Lord Byron's " Mystery," with whatever crude- 
ness and defects it is chargeable, certainly has more 
poetry and music in it than any of his dramatic 
writings since " Manfred; " and has also the pecu- 
liar merit of throwing us back, in a great degree, to 
the strange and preternatural time of which it pro- 
fesses to treat. It is truly, and in every sense of the 
word, a meeting of " heaven and earth; " angels 
are seen ascending and descending, and the win- 
dows ol the sky are opened to deluge the face of 
nature. We have an impassioned picture of the 
strong and devoted attachment inspired into the 
daughters oi men by angel forms, and have placed 
before us the emphatic picture of "woman wailing 
for her demon lover." There is a like conflict of 
the passions as of the elements — all wild, chaotic, 
uncontrollable, fatal; but there is a discordant har 
mony in all this — a keeping in the coloring and the 
time. In handling the unpolished page, we look 
upon the world before the flood, and gaze upon r 
doubtful blank, with only a few straggling figures, 
part human and part divine; while, in the expres- 
sion of the former, we read the fancies, ethereal and 
lawless, that lifted the eye of beauty to the skies, 
and, in the latter, the human passions that " drew 
angels down to earth." — Jeffrey. \ 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED; A DRAMA. 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 

This production is founded partly on the story of a novel called "The Three Brothers," ^ published 
many years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's " Wood Demon " was also taken — and partly on the " Faust " 
of the great Goethe. The present publication contains the two first Parts only, and the opening chorus 
of the third. The rest may perhaps appear hereafter. 



INTRODUCTION. 



This drama was begun at Pisa in 1821, but was not published till January, 1824. Mr. Medwin says: 
— " On my calling on Lord Byron one- morning, he produced the ' Deformed Transformed.' Handing 
it to Shelley, as he was in the habit of doing his daily compositions, he said — ' Shelley, I have been 
writing a Faustish kind of drama tell me what you think of it.' After reading it attentively, Shelley 
returned it. ' Well,' said Lord B., ' how do you like it ? ' ' Least,' replied he, of ' any thing I ever saw of 
yours. It is a bad imitation of ** Faust," and besiJes, there are two entire lines of Southey's in it.' Lord 
Byron changed color immediately, and asked hastily, ' what lines.^ ' Shelley repeated, 

* And water shall see thee, 
And fear thee, and flee thee.* 

They are in the Curse of Kehama.' His Lordship instantly threw the poem into the fire. He seemed 
to feel no chagrin at seeing it consume — at least his countenance betrayed none, and his conversation 
became more gay and lively than usual. Whether it was hatred of Southey, or respect for Shelley's 
opinion, which made him commit the act that I considered a sort of suicide, was always doubtful to me. 
I was never more surprised than to see, two years afterwards, * The Deformed Transformed ' announced 
(supposing it to have perished at Pisa) ; but it seems that he must have had another copy of the manu- 
script, or that he had rewritten it perhaps, without changing a word, except omitting the Kehama lines. 
His memory was remarkably retentive of his own writings. I believe he could have quoted almost every 
line he ever wrote." 

Mrs. Shelley says: — " This had long been a favorite subject with Lord Byron. I think that he men- 
tioned it also in Switzerland. I copied it — he sending a portion of it at a time, as it was finished, to me. 
At this time he had a great horror of its being said that he plagiarized, or that lie studied for ideas, and 
wrote with difficulty. Thus, he gave Shelley Aiken's edition of the British Poets, that it might not be 
found in his house by some English lounger, and reported home: thus, too, he always dated when he 
began and when he ended a poem, to prove hereafter how quickly it was done. I do not think that he 
altered a line in this drama after he had once written it down. He composed and corrected in his mind. 
I do not know how he meant to finish it; but he said himself that the whole conduct of the story was 
already conceived. It was at this time that a brutal paragraph alluding to his lameness appeared, which 
he repeated to me; lest I should hear it first from some one else. No action of Lord Byron's life — 
scarce a line he has wriiten — but was influenced by his personal defect." 

1 fThe " Three Brothers" is a romance, published in 1803, the work of 3 Joshua Pickersgill, junior.] 



69^ 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



[part l 



Stranger, afterwards C^^sar. 

Arnold. 

Bourbon. 

Philibert. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
! Cellini. 



Bertha. 
Olimpia. 



Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, Peasants, etc. 



PART I. 
Scene I. — A Forest. 
Enter Ar'S OLD and Ais mother BERTHA. 



Out, hunchback ! 

I was born so, mother! i 



Bert. 

Am. 

Bert. Out, 

Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven 

sons. 
The sole abortion ! 

Arn. Would that I had been so, 

And never seen the light ! 

Bert. I would so too ! 

But as thou hast — hence, hence — and do thy 

best ! 
That back of thine may bear its burden ; 'tis 
More high, if not so broad as that of others. 

Arn. It bears its burden ; — but, my heart 1 
Will it 
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother? 
I love, or, at the least, I loved you : nothing 
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
You nursed me — do not kill me ! 

Bert. Yes — I nursed thee. 

Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
If there would be another unlike thee, 
That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence. 
And gather wood ! 

Am. I will : but when I bring it, 

Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me : 
Our milk has been the same. 

Bert. As is the hedgehog's, 

Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome 

dam 
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
The nipple next day sore and udder dry.''^ 
Call not thy brothers brethren 1 Call me not 



1 [Lord Byron's own mother, when in ill humor 
with him, used to make the deformity in his foot 
the subject of taunts and reproaches. She wnild 
(we quote from a letter written by one of her rela- 
tions in Scotland) pass from passionate caresses to 
the repulsion of actual disgust; then devour him 
with kisses again, and swear his eyes were as beau- 
tiful as hiS; father's. — Quar. Rev.'\ 

* [This is now believed to be a vulgar error; the 
smallness of the animal's mouth rendering it incap- 
able of the mischief laid to its charge.] 



Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon strange egg^ Out, urchin, out! 
{^Exit Bertha. 
Arn. (so/us) . Oh Mother ! She is gone, 

and I must do 
Her bidding ; — wearily but willingly 
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
A kind word in return. What shall I do? 
[Arnold begins to cut wood : in doing this 

he wounds one of his hands. 
My labor for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
For double curses will be my meed now 
At home — What home? I have no home, 

no kin. 
No kind — not made Hke other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I 

bleed too 
Like them? Oh that each drop which falls to 

earth 
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have 

stung me ! 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, 
Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
His form, why not his power ? Is it because 
I have not his will too ? For one kind word 
From her that bore me would still reconcile me 
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold^^^j to a spring, and stoops to wash 

his hand : he starts back. 
They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows me. 
What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous 

wretch 
That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
From drinking therein. {He pauses. 

And shall I live on, 
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame 
Unto what brought me into life ! Thou blood, 
{ Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
1 Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour forth iny woes for ever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile save myself, 



SCENE I.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



699 



And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
This knife ! now let me prove if it will sever 
This withered slip of nature's nightshade — my 
Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
The green bough from the forest. 

[A R NOLD places the knife in the ground, with 
the point upwards. 

Now 'tis set, 
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
On tlie fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun which warmed me, 

but 
III vain. The birds — how joyously they sing ! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell; 
The fallen leaves my monument ; the murmur 
Oftlie near fountain my sole elegy. 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fiiU ! 

\^As he rushes to throw himselfupon the knife, 
his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain, 
which seems in motion. 
The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
No. Yet it moves again ! The waters stir. 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And r-^cking power of the internal world. 
What's here ? A mist! No more ? — 

\A cloud comes ^rovi thefountaift. He stands 
gazing Jipon it, it is dispelled, and a tall 
black man comes towards him. 

Arn. What would you? Speak 1 

Spirit or ma^i? 

Strati. As man is both, why not 

Say both in one ? 

Arn. Your form is man's, and yet 

You may be devil. 

Strait. So many men are that 

Which is so called or thought, that you may 

add me 
To which you please, without much wrong to 

either. 
But come : you wish to kill yourself; — pursue 
Your purpose. 

Arn. You have interrupted me. 

Stran. What is that resolution which can 
e'er 
Be interrupted? If I be the devil 
You deem, a single moment would have made 

you 
Mine, and for ever, by your suicide ; 
And yet my coming saves you. 

Arn. I said not 

You were the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 

Stran. Unless you keep company 

With him (and you seem scarce used to such 

high 
Society) you can't tell how he approaches ; 
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain. 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Looks likest what the boors believe to be 
Their cloven-footed terror. 



Arn. Do you — dare you 

To taunt me with my born deformity ? 

Stran. Were I to taunt a butfalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more 

mighty 
In action and endurance than thyself, 
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Thy form is natural : 'twas only 
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts which are of others upon man. 

Arn. Give me the strength then of the buf- 
falo's foot. 
When he spurs high the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, 
The helmless dromedary! — and I'll bear 
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 

Stran. I will. 

Arn. {with surprise). Thou canst? 

Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else ? 

Arn. Thou mockest me. 

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 

What all are mocking? That's poor sport, 

methinks. 
To talk to thee in human language (for 
Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester 
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at 

thee, — 
Now / can mock the mightiest. 

Arn. Then waste not 

Thy time on me : I seek thee not. " 

Stran. Your thoughts 

Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
I am not so easily recalled to do 
Good service. 

Arn. What wilt thou do for me? 

Stran. Change 

Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irkS 

you; 
Or form you to your wish in any shape. 

Arn. Oh I then you are indeed the demon, 
for 
Nought else would wittingly wear mine. 

Stran. I'll show thee 

The brightest which the world e'er bore, and 

give thee 
Thy choice. 

Am. On what condition ? 

Stran. There's a question 1 

An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

Arn. No ; I will not, 

I must not compromise my soul. 

Stran. What soul, 



700 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



[part 



Worth naming so, would dwell in such a car- 
cass ? 
Am. 'Tis an inspiring one, whate'er the 
tenement 
In which it is mislodged. But name your 

compact : 
Must it be signed in blood ? 

Stran. Not in your own. 

Arn. Whose blood then ? 
Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. 

But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no 

bond 
But your own will, no contract save your 

deeds. 
Are you content ? 

Arn, I take thee at thy word. 

Stran. Now then ! — 

yrfie Stranger approaches the fountain, and 
turns to Arnold. 

A little of your blood. 
Arn. For what ? 

Stran. To mingle with the magic of the 
waters, 
And make the charm effective. 

Arn. ( holding out his wounded arm ) . Take 

it all. 
Stra7i. Not now. A few drops will suffice 

for this. 
[ The Stranger takes some q/'ARNOLD'S blood 
in his hand, and casts it into the fountain. 
Stran. Shadows of beauty ! 
Shadows of power ! 
Rise to your duty — 
This is the hour! 
Walk lovely and pliant 

From the depth of this fountain. 
As the cloud-shapen giant 

Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.l 
Come as ye were, 

That our eyes may behold 
The model in air 

Of the form I will mould. 
Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spanned ; — 
Such-^^j desire is, {Pointing to ARNOLD. 

Such my command! 
Demons heroic — 

Demons who wore 
The form of the stoic 

Or sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor, 
From Macedon's boy 



^ This is a well-known German superstition — a 
gigantic shadow produced by reflection on the 
Brocken. [The Brocken is the name of the loftiest 
of the Hartz mountains, in the kingdom of Hano- 
ver. From the earliest periods of authentic history, 
the Brocken has been the seat of the marvellous. 
The spectres are merely shadows of the observer 
projected on dense vapor or thin fleecy clouds 
which have the power of reflecting much light.] 



To each high Roman's picture, 
Who breathed to destroy — 
Shadows of beauty ! 

Shadows of power ! 
Up to your duty — 
This is the hour! 
{Various Phantoms arise from the waters, 
and pass in succession before the Stranger 
a«^ Arnold. 
Arn. What do I see ? 
Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 

The eagle's beak between those eyes which 

ne'er 
Beheld a conqueror, or looked along 
The land he made not Rome's, while Rome 

became 
His, and all theirs who heired his very name. 
Arn. The phantom's bald ; my quest is 
beauty. Could I 
Inherit but his fame with his defects I 
Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more 
than hairs. 
You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
I can but promise you his form ; his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for. 

Arn. I will fight too, 

But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass ; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 
Stran. Then you are far more difficult to 
please 
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother. 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 

[ The phantom of Julius Ccesar disappears. 
Arn. And can it 

Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone. 
And left no footstep ? 

Stran. There you err. His substance 

Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory ; 
But for his shadow, 'tis no more than yours. 
Except a little longer and less crooked 
r the sun. Behold another! 

[A second phantom passes. 
Arn. Who is he ? 

Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
Athenians. Look upon him well. 

Arn. He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 2 
Stran. Such was the curled son of Cli 
nias ; — wouldst thou 
Invest thee with his form ? 

Arn. Would that I had 

Been born with it ! But since that I may choose 

further, 
I will look further. 

[ 77^1? shade of Alcibiades disappears. 
Stran. Lo ! behold again 1 



- [" Upon the whole, it may be doubted whether 
there be a name of antiquity which comes down 



SCENE 1.] 



THR DEPORMED TRAMSEORMED. 



701 



Am. What ! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, 
round-eyed satyr, 
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, 
The splay feet and low stature [i I had better 
Remain that which I am. 

Stran. And yet he was 

The earth's perfection of all mental beauty. 
And personification of all virtue. 
But yen reject him ? 

Ar7i. If his form could bring me 

That which redeemed it — no. 

Strait. I have no power 

To promise that ; but you may try, and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

Art!. No. I was not born for philosophy. 
Though I have that about me which has need 

on't. 
Let him fleet on. 



with such a general charm as that of Alcibiades. 
Why? I cannot answer. Who can?"* — Byrotis 
Diary. 1 

• [" The outside of Socrates was that of a satyr 
and buffoon, but his soul was all virtue, and from 
within him came such divine and pathetic things, 
as pierced the heart, and drew tears from the hear- 
ers."— Z'/a/^.] 



* One cannot help being struck with Lord By- 
ron's choice of a favorite among the heroic names 
of antiquity. The man who was educated by Peri- 
cles, and who commanded the admiration as well 
as the affection of Socrates; whose gallantry and 
boldness were always as undisputed as the pre-emi- 
nent graces of his person and manners; who died 
at forty-five, after having been successively the 
delight and hero of Athens, of Sparta, of Persia; — 
this most versatile of great men has certainly left to 
the world a very splendid reputation. But his 
fame is stained with the recollections of a most 
profligate and debauched course of private life, and 
of the most complete and flagrant contempt of pub- 
lic principle; and it is to be hoped that there are 
not many men who could gravely give to the name 
of Alcibiades a preference, on the whole, over such 
an one as that of an Epaminondas or a Leonidas, 
or even of a Miltiades or a Hannibal. But the 
career of Alcibiades was romantic: every great 
event in which he had a share has the air of a per- 
sonal adventure; and, whatever might be said of 
his want of principle, moral and political, nobody 
ever doubted the greatness of his powers and the 
brilliancy of his accomplishments. By the gift of 
nature, the handsomest creature of his time, and 
the possessor of a very extraordinary genius, he 
was by accidents or by fits, a soldier, — a hero, — 
an orator, — and even, it should seem, a philoso- 
pher; but he played these parts only because he 
wished it to be thought that there was no part 
which he could not play. He thought of nothing 
but himself. His vanity entirely commanded the 
direction of his genius, and could even make him 
abandon occasionally his voluptuousness for the 
very opposite extreme; which last circumctance, 
by the way, was probably one of those that had hit 
Lord Byron's fancy — as indeed it may be sus- 
pected to have influenced his behavior. — Lock- 
hart. 



Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker! 

[ The shadow of Socrates disappears : another 
rises. 

Ar/t. What's here? whose broad brow and 
whose curly beard 
And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 
As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
For whom he had fought. 

Stran. It was the man who lost 

The ancient world for love. 

Am. I cannot blame him, 

Since I have risked my soul because I find 

not 
That which he exchanged the earth for. 

Stran. Since so far 

You seem congenial, will you wear his features? 

Am. No, As you leave me choice, I am 
difficult. 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

Stran. Hence, triumvir! 

Thy Cleopatra's waiting. 

[ The shade of Antony disappears : another 
rises. 

Am. Who is this ? 

Who truly looketh like a demigod, 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and' 

stature. 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 
Which he wears as the sun his rays — a some- 
thing 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the 

flashing 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
Was he e'er human only ? ^ 

Stran. Let the earth speak. 

If there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more solid gold that formed his urn. 

Am. Who was this glory of mankind ? 

Stran. The shame 

Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

Artt. Yet one shadow more. 

Stran. {^addressing the shadoiv). Get thee 
to Lamia's lap 1 

[ The shade of Detnetrius Poliorcetes van- 
ishes : another rises. 

I'll fit you still. 
Fear not, my hunchback : if the shadows of 



2 [The beauty and mien of Demetrius Poliorcetes 
were so inimitable, that no statuary or painter 
could hit off a likeness. His countenance had a 
mixture of grace and dignity, and was at once 
amiable and awful, and the unsubdued^ and eager 
air of youth was blended with the majesty of the 
hero and the king, —Pliitarch.\ 



m 



THE DEFORMED TRAMSFORMED. 



[part 1. 



That which existed please not your nice taste, 

I'll animate the ideal marble, till 

Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 

Am. Content! I will fix here. 

Stran. I must commend 

Your choice. The godlike son of the sea- 
goddess, 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus, rolled o'er sands of gold, 
Softened by intervening crystal, and 
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind, 
All vowed to Sperchius as they were — be- 
hold them 1 
And hhn — as he stood by Polixena, 
With sanctioned and with softened love, be- 
fore 
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, 
With some remorse within for Hector slain 
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep pas- 
sion 
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young 

hand 
Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
Greece looked her last upon her best, the 

instant 
Ere Paris' arrow flew. 

Arn. I gaze upon him 

As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelop mine. 

Stran. You have done well. I'he greatest 
Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

Am. Come ! Be quick ! 

I am impatient. 

Stran. As a youthful beauty 

Before her glass. Y021 both see what is not. 
But dream it is what must be. 

Am. Must I wait ? 

Stran. No ; that were a pity. But a word 
or two : 
His stature is twelve cubits ; would you so 

far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan ? Or 
(To talk canonically) wax a son 
Of Anak? 

Am. Why not ? 

Stran. Glorious ambition ! 

I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David: 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged. 
If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
A little less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for all 
Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth ; and their cursed 

engines. 
Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 



Through our friend's armor there, witli greater 

ease 
Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel. 
Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
In Styx. 
Arn. Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 
Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the 
thing thou seest, 

And strong as what it was, and 

Arn. I ask not 

For valor, since deformity is daring. 
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal — 
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
A spur in its halt movements, to become 
All that the others cannot, in such things 
As still are free to both, to compensate 
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of 

fortune, 
And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win 
them. 
Stran. Well spoken ! And thou doubtless 
wilt remain 
Formed as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to in- 
case 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it. 

Arn. Had no power presented me 

The possibility of change, I would 
Have done the best which spirit may to make 
Its way with all deformity's dull, deadly, 
Discouraging weight upon me, like a moun- 
tain. 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
An hateful and unsightly molehill to 
The eyes of happier men. I would have 

looked 
On beauty in that sex which is the type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 
Not of love, but despair; nor sought to win. 
Though to a heart all love, what could not 

love me 
In turn, because of this vile crooked clog. 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have 

borne 
It all, had not my mother spurned me from 

her. 
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape was 

hopeless. 
Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what cour- 
age 
And perseverance could have done, perchance 
Had made me something — as it has made 
heroes 



SCENE 1.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



^03 



Ot the same mould as mine. You lately saw 

me 
Master of my own life, and quick to quit it ; 
And he who is so is the master of 
Whatever dreads to die. 

Stran. Decide between 

What you have been, or will be. 

Am. I have done so. 

You have opened brighter prospects to my 

eyes, 
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
I might be feared, admired, respected, loved 
Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste! haste! 

Stran. And what shall / wear ? 

Am. Surely he 

Who can command all forms will choose the 

highest. 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
Who slew him, that of Paris : or — still 

higher — 
The poet's god, clothed in such linibs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

Stran. Less will content me ; 

For I, too, love a change. 

Am. Your aspect is 

Dusky, but not uncomely. 

Stran. If I chose, 

I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with 

fear; 
But I have worn it long enough of late, 
And now I'll take your figure. 

Arn. Mine ! 

Stran. Yes. You 

Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with 

Bertha, 
Your mother's offspring. People have their 

tastes ; 
You have yours — I mine. 

Arn. Despatch ! despatch ! 

Stran. Even so. 

[ The Stranger takes some earth and moulds 

it along the turf, and then addresses the 

phantom of Achilles. 

Beautiful shadow 

Of Thetis's boy ! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 

Whose grass grows o'er Troy: 
From the red earth, like Adam.l 

Thy likeness I shape. 
As the being who made him, 

Whose actions I ape. 
Thou clay, be all glowing, 
Till the rose in his cheek 



' Adam means " red earth," from which the 
first man was formed. 



Be as fair as, when blowing, 

It wears its first streak! 
Ye violets, I scatter, 

Now turn into eyes! 
And thou, sun:-hiny water, 
Of blood take the guise! 
L't these hyacinth boughs 
Be his long flowing hair, 
And wave o'er his brows. 
As thou wavest in air ! 
L'jt his heart be this maible 

I tear from the rock ! 
But his voice as the warble 

Of birds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 
Of mould, in which grew 
The lily-root surest. 

And drank the best dew! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 

Which clay can compound, 
And his aspect the brightest 

On earth to be found ! 
Elements, near me, 

Be mingled and stirred, 
Know me, and hear me, 
And leap to my word ! 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation! 
'Tis done ! He hath taken 
His stand in creation ! 
[Arnold falls senseless ; his soul passes in- 
to the shape of Achilles, 7vhich rises from 
the ground ;' while the phantom has dis- 
appeared, part by part, as the figure was 
formed from the earth. 
Am. {in his new for ni). I love, and I shall 
be beloved ! Oh life ! 
At last I feel thee I Glorious spirit ! 

Stran. Stop ! 

What shall become of your abandoned gar- 
ment. 
Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness. 
Which late you wore, or were ? 

Am. Who cares ? Let wolves 

And vultures take it, if they will. 

Stran. And if 

They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 

Arn. Let us but leave it there ; 

No matter what becomes on't. 

Stran. That's ungracious, 

If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
It hath sustained your soul full many a day. 
Arn. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a 
gem 
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 
Stran. But if I give another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid have 

long 
Had patents %r the same, and do not love 



704 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



[part I. 



Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
Not make them, — though he reaped the ben- 
efit 
Of the original workmanship: — and therefore 
Some one must be found to assume the 

shape 
You have quitted. 

A) 71. Who would do so ? 

Stran. That I know not, 

And therefore I must. 

Am. You ! 

Stran. I said it ere 

You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 

Am. True. I forget all things in the new 
joy 
Of this immortal change. 

Stran. In a few moments 

I will be as you were, and you shall see 
Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 

Am. I would be spared this. 

Stran. But it cannot be. 

What ! shrink already, being what you are, 
From seeing what you were ? 

Am. Do as thou wilt. 

Stran. {to the late form of ARNOLD, ex- 
tended on the earth) . 
Clay! not dead, but soul-less ! 

Though no man would choose thee, 
An immortal no less 

Deigns not to refuse thee. 
Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
All clay is of equal merit. 
Fire ! without which nought can live ; 
Fire ! but in which nought can live, 

Save the fabled salamander. 

Or immortal souls, which wander, 
Praying what doth not forgive, 
Howling for a drop of water. 

Burning in a quenchless lot: 
Fire! the only element 

Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm. 
Save the worm which dieth not, 

Can preserve a moment's form, 
But must with thyself be blent : 
Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter : 
Fire ! Creation's first-born daughter, 

And Destruction's threatened son. 

When heaven with the world hath done : 
Fire ! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in my view 

Stiff and cold! 
His resurrection rests with me and you! 
One little, marshy spark of flame — 
And he again shall seem the same ; 

But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 

\_An igJiis-fatuus flits through the wood and 
rests on the brow of the body. The Stra?i- 
ger disappears : the body rises. 

Am. {in his new for jn) . Oh! horrible! 

Stran. {in ARNOLD'S late shape). What! 
tremblest thou ? 

Am, Not so — 



I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest ? 

Stran. To the world of shadows. 

But let us thread the present. Whither wilt 
thou ? 

Am. Must thou be my companion ? 

Stran. Wherefore not ? 

Your betters keep worse company. 

Arn. My betters ! 

Stran. Oh ! you wax proud, I see, of your 
new form : 
I'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That's well ; 
You improve apace; — two changes in an 

instant, 
And you are old in the world's ways already. 
But bear with me : indeed you'll find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Where shall we now be errant ? 

Arn. Where the world 

Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
Its workings. 

Stran. That's to say, where there is war 

And woman in activity. Let's see ! 
Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth. 
There is small choice : the whole race are 

just now 
Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 

Arn. I have heard great things of Rome. 

Stran. A goodly choice — 

And scarce a better to be found on earth, 
Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide 

too; 
For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish 

scion 
Of the old Vandals, are at play along 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

Arn. How 

Shall we proceed ? 

Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers. 
What ho! my chargers! Never yet were 

better. 
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po, 
Our pages too ! 

Enter two Pages, with four coal-black horses, 

Arn. A noble sight ! 

Stran. And of 

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
On your Kochlini race of Araby, 
With these ! 

Am. The mighty steam, which volumes high 
From their proud nostrils, burns the very 

air; 
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, 

wheel 
Around their manes, as common insects 

swarm 
Round common steeds towards sunset. 

Stran. Mount, my lord : 

They and I are your servitors. 

Arn. And these 



SCENE II.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



705 



Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their 
names ? 

Stran. You shall baptize them. 

Am, What ! in holy water ? 

Stran. Why not ? The deeper sinner, bet- 
ter saint. 

Arn. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, 
be demons. 

Stran. True ; the devil's always ugly ; and 
your beauty 
In never diabolical. 

Am. I'll call him 

Who bears the golden horn, and wfears such 

bright 
And blooming aspect, Huon; for he looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest, 
And never found till now. And for the other 
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles 

not, 
But looks as serious though serene as night. 
He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king 
Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
And you ? 

Stran. I have ten thousand names, and 
twice 
As many attributes ; but as I wear 
A human shape, will take a human name. 

Arn. More human than the shape (though 
it was mine once) 
I trust. 

Stran. Then call me Caesar. 

Arn. Why, that name 

Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

Stran. And therefore fittest for 

The devil in disguise — since so you deem me. 
Unless you call me pope instead. 

Am. Well, then, 

Caesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
Shall be plain Arnold still. 

C(^s. We'll add a title — 

" Count Arnold : " it hath no ungracious sound, 
And will look well upon a billet-doux. 

Am. Or in an order for a batlle-field. 

CcBS. {sings). To horse! to horse!, my 
coal-black steed 
Paws the ground and snuffs the air ! 

There's not a foal of 'Arab's breed 
More knows whom he must bear; 

On the hill he will not tir^, 

Swifter as it waxes higher , 

In the marsh he will not slacken. 

On the plain be overtaken ; 

In the wave he will not sink, 

Nor pause at the brook's side to drink; 

In the race he will not pant. 

In the combat he'll not faint; 

On the stones he will not stumble, 

Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 

In the stall he will not stiffen. 

But be winged as a grifhn, 

Only flying with his feet: 



And will not such a voyage be sweet ? 

Merrily! merrily! never unsound, 

Shall our bonny black horses-skim over the 

ground ! 
From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or 

fly! 
For we'll leave them behind in the glance of 

an eye. 
[ They jnotmt their horses, and disappear. 

Scene 1 1. — ^ Camp before the Walls of Rone. 
Arnold a7id C/^sar. 

CcBs. You are well entered now. 

Arn. Ay ; but my path 

Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
Of blood. 

C(Bs. Then wipe them, and see clearly. 
Why! 
Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable of France : and now to be 
Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
Under its emperors, and — changing sex, 
Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
Lady of the old world. 

Arn. How old f What ! are there 

New worlds ? 

Cces. To you. You'll find there are such 
shortly, 
By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 
From one halfoi the world named a whole new 

one, 
Because you know no better than the dull 
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 

Ar7i. I'll trust them. 

Cms. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 
And that is better than the bitter truth. 

Arn. Dog ! 

Cces. Man ! 

Ai'n. Devil ! 

CcBs. Your obedient humble servant. 

Arn. Say master rather. Thou has lured 
me on, 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am 
here. 

CcBs. And where wouldst thou be ? 

Am. Oh, at peace — in peace. 

CcBs. And where is that which is so ? From 
the star 
To the winding worm, all life is motion ; and 
In life commotion is the extremest point 
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds 

its way, 
Living upon the death of other things, 
But still, like them, must live and die, the subject 
Of something which has made it live and die 
You must obey what all obey, the rule 
Of fixed necessitx- : against her edict 
Rebellion prospers not. 



706 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



[part 1. 



Am, And when it prospers 

Cces. 'Tis no rebellion. 

Am. Will it prosper now ? 

Cces. The Bourbon hath given orders for 
the assault, 
And by the dawn there will be work. 

Am. Alas ! 

And shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God, and his true saint. 
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
That sky whence Christ ascended from the 

cross. 
Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
Of joy (as once of torture unto him, 
God and God's Son, man's sole and only 
refuge). 

Cces. 'Tis there, and shall be. 

Am. What ? 

Cces. The crucifix 

Above, and many altar shrines below. 
Also some culverins upon the walls. 
And harquebusses, and what not ; besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men. 

Ar7i. And those scarce mortal arches, 
Pile above pile of everlasting wall. 
The theatre where emperors and their sub- 
jects 
(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
In the arena (as right well they might, 
When they had left no human foe uncon- 

quered) ; 
Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
Life to their amphitlicatre, as well 
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
For a sole instant's pastime, and " Pass on 
To a new gladiator ! " — Must it fall ? 

Cces. The city, or the ampliitheatre ? 
The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 
Both them and me. 

Am. To-morrow sounds the assault 

With the first cock-crow. 

CcBS. Which, if it end with 

The evening's first nightingale, will be 
Something new in the annals of great sieges ; 
For men must have their prey after long toil. 

Ar7i. The sun goes down as calmly, and 
perhaps 
More beautifully, than he did on Rome 
On the day Remus leapt her wall. 

CcBs. ' I saw him. 

Am. You ! 

CcBs. Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 

Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 
And a worse name. I'm Caesar and a hunch- 
back 
Now. Well ! the first of Caesars was a bald- 
head, 
And !oved his laurels better as a wig 



(So history says) than as a glory.i Thus 
The world runs on, but we'll be merry still. 
I s iw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same 

womb. 
Because he leapt a ditch ('twas then no wall, 
Whate'er it now be) ; and Rome's earliest 

cement 
Was brother's blood ; and if its native blood 
Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
As e'er 'twas yellow, it will never wear 
The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
Have made their never-ceasing scene oi 

slaughter 
For ages. 
Am. But what have these done, their | 
far j 

Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, { 
The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
Piety ? 

Cces. And what had they done, whom the 
old 
Romans o'erswept ? — Hark ! 

Am. They are soldiers singing 

A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 
Cces. And why should they not sing as 
well as swans ? 
They are black ones, to be sure. 

Am. So, you are learned, 

I see, too ? 

C(ss. In my grammar, certes. I 

Was educated for a monk of all times. 
And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 
Your alphabet. 
Am. And wherefore do you not ? 

Cces. It answers better to resolve the 
alphabet 
Back into hieroglyphics. Like your states- 
man, 
And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchemist, 
Philospher, and what not, they have built 
More Babels, without new dispersion, than 
The stammering young ones of the flood's 

dull ooze. 
Who failed and fled each other. Why ? why, 

marry. 
Because no man could understand his neigh- 
bor. 
They are wiser now, and will not separate 
For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood. 



1 [Suetonius relates of Julius Cjesar, that his 
baldness gave him much uneasiness, having often 
found himself, upon that account, exposed to the 
ridicule of his enemies; and that, therefore, of all 
the honors conferred upon him by the senate and 
people, there was none which he either accepted or 
used with so much pleasure as the right o<" wearing 
constantly a laurel crown.] 



SCENE II.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



707 



Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Tahnud, their 
Cabala; their best biick-work, wherewithal 

They build more 

Arn. {hiteirupthig him). Oh, thou ever- 
lasting sneerer ! 
Be silent! How the soldiers' rough strain 

seems 
Softened by distance to a hymn-like ca- 
dence! 
Listen ! 

CcBs. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 
Arn. And demons howl. 
C(Bs. And man too. Let us listen ; 

I love all music. 

Song of the Soldiers within. 

The black bands came over 

The Alps and their snow ; 
With Bourbon, the Rover, 

They passed the broad Po. 
We have beaten all foemen, 

We have captured a king, 
We have turned back on no men, 

And so let us sing! 
Hero's the Bourbon for ever I 

Though pennyless all, 
We'll have one more endeavor 

At yonder old wall. 
With the Bourbon we'll gather 

At day-dawn before 
The gates, and together 

Or break or climb o'er 
The wall : on the ladder 

As mounts each firm foot. 
Our shouts shall grow gladder, 

And death only be mute. 
With the Bourbon we'll mount o'er 

The walls of old Rome, 
And who then shall count o'er 

The spoils of each dome ? 
Up ! up with the lily ! 

And down with the keys ! 
In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 

We'll revel at ease. 
Her streets shall be gory. 

Her Tiber all red. 
And her temples so hoary 

Shall clang with our tread. 
Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon! 

The Bourbon for aye ! 
Of our song bear the burden ! 

And fire, fire away ! 
With Spain for the vanguard, 

Our varied host comes ; 
And next to the Spaniard 

Beat Germany's drums ; 
And Italy's lances 

Are couched at their mother; 
But our leader from France is, 

Who warred with his brother. 
Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon! 

Sans country or home, 



We'll follow the Bourbon, 
To plunder old Rome. 

Cms. An indifferent song 

For those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 

Arn. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But 

here comes 

The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 

A goodly rebel ! 

Enter the Constable BOURBON l " cutn suis," 
etc. etc. 
Phil. How now, noble prince, 

You are not cheerful ? 

Boiirb. Why should I be so ? 

Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as 
ours, 
Most men would be so. 

Bourb. If I were secure ! 

Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the 
walls of adamant, 
They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artil- 
lery. 
Bourb. That they will falter is my least of 
fears. 
That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 
Mountains, and those who guard them like 

the gods 
Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans ; — 

But now 

Phil. They are but men who war with 

mortals. 
Bourb. True : but those walls have girded 
in great ages. 
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 
And present phantom of imperious Rome 
Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
They flit along the eternal city's rampart, 
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy 

hands, 
And beckon me away ! 

Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 

Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows? 

Bourb. They do not menace me. I could 

have faced, 

Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp. 

And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike 

hands, 
And with their thin aspen faces and fixed 

eyes 
Fascinate mine. Look there ! 

Phil. I look upon 

A lofty battlement. 

Bourb. And there ! 

Phil. Not even 



1 [Charles of Bourbon was cousin to Francis I., 
and Constable of France. Being bitterly perse- 
cuted by the queen-mother for having declined the 
honor of her hand, and also by the king, he trans- 
' ferred his services to the Emperor Charles V.] 



708 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



[part 



A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
Sheltered by the gray parapet from some 
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
Practise in the cool twilight. 

Bourb. You are blind. 

Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be 
seen 
Be so. 

Bourb. A thousand years have manned 
the walls 
With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
The liberty of that I would enslave. 
And the first Caesar with his triumphs flits 
From battlement to battlement. 

Phil. Then conquer 

The walls for which he conquered, and be 
greater ! 

Bourb. True : so I will, or perish. 

Phil. You can not. 

In such an enterprise to die is rather 
The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 

\_Count Arnold arid C.^SAR advance. 

CcBs. And the mere men — do they too 
sweat beneath 
The noon of this same ever-scorching glory ? 

Bourb. Ah ! 

Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his 

master. 
The beauty of our host, and brave as beau- 
teous. 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere morning. 

C(£s. You will find. 

So please your highness, no less for yourself. 

Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a 
laborer 
More forward, hunchback ! 

CcBs. You may well say so, 

Yox you have seen that back — as general, 
Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
Have never seen it. 

Bourb. That's a fair retort. 

For I provoked it : — but the Bourbon's breast 
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
In danger's face as yours, were you the 
devil. 

Cces. And if I were, I might have saved 
myself 
The toil of coming here. 

Phil. Why so ? 

CcBs. One half 

Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 
Will go to him, the other half be sent. 
More swiftly, not less surely. 

BouT-b. Arnold, your 

Slight crooked friend's as snake-like in his 

words 
As his deeds. 

CcBs. Your highness much mistakes me. 
The first snake was a flatterer — I am none; 
And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 



Bourb. You are brave, and that's enough 
for me ; and quick 
In speech as sharp in action — and that's 

more. 
I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. 

Cces. They are but bad company, your 
highness. 
And worse even for their friends than foes, as 

being 
More permanent acquaintance. 

Phil. How now, fellow I 

Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

Cces. You mean I speak the truth. 

I'll lie — it is as easy: then you'll praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Let him alone; he's brave, and ever has 
Been first, with that swart face and mountain 

shoulder 
In field or storm, and patient in starvation ; 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of 

license,. 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a mere famished, sullen, grumbling slave, 
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis. 
With which he deems him rich. 

Cess. It would be well 

If the earth's princes asked no more. 

Bourb. Be silent ! 

Cess. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself 
with words ! 
You have few to speak. 

Phil. What means the audacious prater ? 

CcBs. To prate, like other prophets. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Why will you vex him ? Have we not enough 
To think on ? Arnold! I will lead the attack 
To-morrow. 

Am. I have heard as much, my lord. 

Bourb. And you will follow ? 

Am. Since I must not lead. 

Bourb. 'Tis necessary for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's 
First step. 

CcBs. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 

So shall he have his full deserts. 

Bourb. The world's 

Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Through every change the seven-hilled city 

hath 
Retained her sway o'er nations, and the 

Caesars, 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
Still the world's masters. Civilized, barbarian, 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 



SCENE II. J 



THE DEPORMED TRANSFORMED. 



709 



Have been the circus of an empire. Well ! 
Twas their turn — now 'tis ours; and let us 

hope 
That we will fight as well, and rule much 
better. 
C(Es. No doubt, the camp's the school of 
civic rights. 
What would you make of Rome ? 
Bourb. I'hat which it was, 

CcBs. In Alaric's time ? 
Bourb. No, slave ! in the first Caesar's, 

Whose name you bear like other curs 

CcBs. And kings! 

'Tis a great name for blood-hounds. 

Bourb. There's a demon 

In that fierce rattlesnake thy tongue. Wilt 

never 
Be serious ? 

Cces. On the eve of battle, no ; — 

That were not soldier-like. 'Tis for the gen- 
eral 
To be more pensive : we adventurers 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should 

we think 
Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape. 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from 

hosts ! 
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
To crack those walls alone. 

Bourb. You may sneer, since 

'Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse 
for't. 
Cces. I thank you for the freedom ; 'tis the 
only 
Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 
Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay 
yourself. 
Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury : 
But, Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold, 
We would request your presence. 

Am. Prince 1 my service 

Is yours, as in the field. 

Bojirb. In both we prize it, 

And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 
C(ss. And mine ? 

Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 
Good night ! 
Am. {to C/^SAR). Prepare our armor for 
the assault. 
And wait within mv tent. 

{Exeu/lt BOURKON, ARNOLD, PHILIBERT, 

etc. 
Cces. {solus). Within thy tent! 

Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my 

presence ? 
Or that this crooked coffer, which contained 
Thy principle of life, is aught to me 
Except a mask ? And these are men, for- 
sooth ! 
Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's 

bastards ! 
This is the consequence of giving matter 



The power of thought. It is a stubborn sub- 
stance. 

And thinks chaotically, as it acts, 

Ever relapsing into its first elements. 

Well ! I must play with these poor puppets : 
'tis 

The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 

When I grow weary of it, I have business 

Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures 
deem 

Were made for them to look at. 'Twere a 
jest now 

To bring one down amongst them, and set fire 

Unto their anthill: how the pismires then 

Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, 
ceasing 

From tearing down each other's nests, pipe 
forth 

One universal orison ! Ha ! ha ! 

[Exit C^SAR. 



PART II. 

Scene I. — Be/ore the walls of Rome. — The 
assault : the artny in ynotion, with ladders to 
scale the walls; BOURBON, with a white 
scarf over his armor, foremost. 

Chorus of Spirits in the air, 
I. 
'Tis the morn, but dim and dark. 
Whither flies the silent lark ? 
Whither shrinks the clouded sun ? 
Is the day indeed begun ? 
Nature's eye is melancholy 
O'er the city high and holy : 
But without there is a din 
Should arouse the saints within, 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
Oh ye seven hills ! awaken, 
Ere your very base be shaken ! 

2. 

Hearken to the steady stamp ! 

Mars is in their every tramp ! 

Not A step is out of tune, 

As the tides obey the moon ! 

On they march, though to self-slaughter, 

Regular as rolling water, 

Wliose high waves o'ersweep the border 

Of huge moles, but keep their order, 

Breaking only rank by rank. 

Hearken to the armor's clank ! 

Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 

How he glares upon the barrier : 

Look on each step of each ladder. 

As the stripes that streak an adder. 



Look upon the bristling wall. 
Manned without an interval ! 



710 



THE DEFORMED TRANSEORMED. 



[part 11. 



Round and round, and tier on tier, 
Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 
Lit match, bell-mouthed musquetoon. 
Gaping to be murderous soon; 
All the warlike gear of old, 
Mixed with what we now behold, 
In this strife 'twixt old and new, 
Gather like a locusts' crew. 
Shade of Remus ! 'tis a time 
Awful as thy brother's crime! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine: — 
Must its lot be like to thine ? 



Near — and near — and nearer still, 

As the eartliquake saps the hill. 

First with trembling, hollow motion, 

Like a scarce-awakened ocean, 

Then with stronger shock and louder. 

Till the rocks are crushed to powder, — 

Onward sweeps the rolling host ! 

Heroes of the immortal boast ! 

Mighty chiefs ! eternal shadows ! 

First flowers of the bloody meadows 

Which encompass Rome, the mother 

Of a people without brother! 

Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 

Plough the root up of your laurels ? 

Ye who weep o'er Carthage burning. 

Weep not — strike ! for Rome is mourning ! ^ 



Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
To the wall, with hate and hunger. 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city, 
Must thou be a theme for pity ? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman ! 
Alaric was a gentle foeman. 
Matched witii Bourbon's black banditti! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
Rouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
With thine own hand to thy porch, 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
Your worst dwelling with their foot. 



Ah! behold yon bleeding spectre! 
Ilion's children find no Hector; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother; 
Rome's great sire forgot his mother, 
When he slew his gallant twin. 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide! 
When the first o'erleapt thy wall, 

1 Scipio, the second Africanus, is said to have 
repeated a verse of Homer, and wept over the burn- 
ing of Carthage. He had better have granted it a 
capitulation. 



Its foundation mourned thy fall. 
Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able ? 
Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome! 



Now they reach thee in their anger: 
Fire and smoke and hellish clangor 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder ! 
Death is in thy walls and under. 
Now the meeting steel first clashes, 
Downward then the ladder crashes. 
With its iron load all gleaming. 
Lying at its foot blaspheming ! 
Up again ! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbs the barrier. 
Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome ! although thy wall may perish. 
Such manure thy fields will cherish. 
Making gay the harvest home ; 
But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome ! — 
Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish. 
Fight as thou wast \Vont to vanquish ! 



Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 

Let not your quenched hearths be At6's! 

Yet again ye shadowy heroes, 

Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 

Though the son who slew his mother 

Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 

'Tvvas the Roman curbed the Roman ; — 

Brennus was a baffled foeman. 

Yet again, ye saints and martyrs. 

Rise 1 for yours are holier charters! 

Mighty gods of temples falling. 

Yet in ruin still appalling! 

Mightier founders of those altars. 

True and Christian, — strike the assaulters 1 

Tiber ! Tiber ! let thy torrent 

Show even nature's self abhorrent. 

Let each breathing heart dilated 

Turn, as doth the lion baited ! 

Rome be crushed to one wide tomb, 

But be still the Roman's Rome ! 

Bourbon, Arnold, C^SAR, and others, ar- 
rive at the foot of the wall. ARNOLD is 
about to plant his ladder. 

Bourb. Hold, Arnold ! I am first. 
Am. Not so, my lord 

Bourb. Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow! 
I am proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 
[BOURBON plants his ladder, and begins to 
mount. 
Now, boys ! On ! on ! 

{A shot strikes him, and BourbON/z/Zj. 
CcBs. And off! 

Am. Eternal powers I 



SCENE II. J 



THE DEFORMED TRANSEORMED. 



711 



The host will be appalled, — but vengeance! 

vengeance ! 

Bourb. 'Tis nothing — lend nie your hand. 

[Bourbon takes Arnold by the hand, and 

rises ; but as he puts his foot oil the step, 

falls again. 

Arnold ! I am sped. 
Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal 

it! 
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
Let not the soldiers see it. 
Am. You must be 

Removed; the aid of 

Bourb. No, my gallant boy ; 

Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them 

still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay. 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you 
, may. 

Cces. Would not your highness choose to 
kiss the cross ? 
We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
May serve instead : — it did the same for Bay- 
ard.i 
Bourb. Thou bitter slave I to name him 
at this time ! 
But I deserve it. 
Arn. {to CyESAR). Villain, hold your 

peace ! 
C(zs. What, when a Christian dies ? Shall 
I not offer 
A Christian " Vade in pace ? " 

Am, Silence! Oh! 

Those eyes are glazing which o'erlooked the 

world. 
And saw no equal. 

Bourb. Arnold, should'st thou see 

France But hark! hark! the assault grows 

warmer — Oh ! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life 
To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold, hence ! 
You lose time — they will conquer Rome 
without thee. 
Arn. And without thee / 
Bourb. Not so; I'll lead them still 

In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and 

be 
Victorious I 



^ [Finding himself mortally wounded, Bayard 
ordered one of his attendants to place him under a 
tree with his face towards the enemy; then fixing 
his eyes on the guard of his sword, which he held 
up instead of a cross, he addressed his prayers to 
God, and in this posture he calmly waited the ap- 
proach of death. — Robertsons Charles V. 

Just before Bayard's death Bourbon passing by 
with the victorious Imperialists, expressed his 
compassion. " Pity not me," said Bayard, " for I 
die like an honest man; but I pity you who are 
serving against your king, your country, and your 
oath." Hence the dying Bourbon exclaims against 



Am. But I must not leave thee thus. 

Bourb. You must — farewell — Up! up! 
the world is winning. [BoURBON dtes:^ 
Cces. (to Arnold). Come, count, to busi- 
ness. 
Arn. True. I'll weep hereafter. 
[Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a 
mantle, and mounts the ladder, crying. 
The Bourbon! Bourbon! On, boys! Rome is 
ours ! 
Cces. Good night, lord constable ! thou 

wert a man. 
[C^SAR y&//c«'j Arnold; they reach the 
battlement; ARNOLD and C^SAR are 
struck doion. 
Cces. A precious somerset ! Is your count 

ship injured ? 
Am. No. \Remounts the ladder, 

Cces. A rare blood-hound, when his own is 
heated ! 
And 'tis no boy's play. Now he strikes them 

down! 
His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
As tliough it were an altar ; now his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here ? — a 

Roman? \_A man falls. 

The first bird of the covey ! he has fallen 
On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, 
fellow ? 
Wounded Man. A drop of water ! 
CcBs. Blood's the only liquid 

Nearer than Tiber. 

Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. 

{^Dies. 

Cces. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 

Oh these immortal men! and their great 

motives ! 
But I must after my young charge. He is 
By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge ! 
[C.-ESAR mounts the ladder ; the scene closes. 

Scene II. — The City.— Combats between the 
Besiegers and Besieged in the streets. In- 
habitants flying in confusion. 
Elder C^SAR. 
Cces. I cannot find my hero ; he is mixed 

With the heroic crowd that now pursue 



Caesar for bringing to his mind the rebuke of the 
dying Bayard.] 

- [On the ist of May, 1527, the Constable and 
his army came in sight of Rome, and the next 
morning commenced the attack. Bourbon wore a 
white vest over his armor, in order, he s:iid, to be 
more conspicuous both 10 his friends and foes. He 
led on to the walls, and commenced a furious as- 
sault, which was repelled with equal violence. See- 
ing that his army began to waver, he seized a scal- 
ing-ladder from a soldier standing, and was in the 
act of ascending, when he was pierced by a mus- 
ket-ball, and fell. Feeling that his wound was 
mortal, he desired that his body might be concealed 
from his soldiers, and instantly expired. — Robert^ 
so>i.'\ 



ni 



TJ/£ DEFORMED TRANSEORMED. 



[part It. 



The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
What have we here ? A cardinal or two 
That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
How the old red-shanks scamper! Could 

they doff 
Their hose as they have doffed their hats, 

'twould be 
A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
But let them fly ; the crimson kennels now 
Will not much stain their stockings, since the 

mire 
Is of the self-same purple hue. 

Enter a Party fighting — ARNOLD at the head 
of the Besiegers. 

He comes, 
Hand in hand with the mild twins Gore and 

Glory. 
Holla! hold, count! 
Am. Away! they must not rally. 

Cces. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden 
bridge 
Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 
A form of beauty, and an 
Exemption from some maladies of body. 
But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
I dipt thee not in Styx; and 'gainst a foe 
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
More than Pelides' heel; why then, be cau- 
tious, 
And know thyself a mortal still. 

Am. And who 

With aught of soul would combat if he were 
Invulnerable ? That were pretty sport. 
Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar ? 
[Arnold rushes i?ito the combat. 
CcBS. A precious sample of humanity ! 
Well, his blood's up; and if a little's shed, 
'Twill serve to curb his fever. 

[Arnold engages with a Roman, who re- 
tires towards a portico. 
Am, Yield thee, slave ! 

I promise quarter. 
Rom. That's soon said. 

Am. And done — 

My word is known. 
Rom. So shall be my deeds. 

\^'rhey reengage. C/ESAR conies forward. 
Cces. Why, Arnold ! hold thine own : thou 
hast in hand 
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor; 
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
Not so, my musqueteer; 'twas he who slew 
The Bourbon from the wall. 

Am. Ay, did he so ? 

Then he hath carved his monument. 

Rom. I yet 

May live to carve your betters. 

Cces. Well s^id, my man of marble ! Ben- 
venuto. 
Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 



I,: 



Who slays Cellini will have worked as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks.! 

[Arnold disarms and wounds CELLINI 
dut slightly : the latter draws a pistol, an 
fires ; then retires, and disappears thr 
the portico. 

Cces. How farest thou? Thouhast a taste,| 

methinks, ||| 

Of red Bellona's banquet. ; 

Am. {staggers). 'Tis a scratch. " 

Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape mei.; 

thus. 'i| 

Cces. Where is it ? 

Am. In the shoulder, not the sword arm — :j- 
And that's enough. I am thirsty : would I had f 
A helm of water ! | 

CcBs. That's a liquid now i|j 

In requisition, but by no means easiest j 

To come at. 

Am. And my thirst increases ; — but! 

I'll find a way to quench it. 

CcBS. Or be quenched:; 

Thyself? i 

Am. The chance is even ; we will throw I 
The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating ; 
Prithee be quick. [C/-ESAR binds on the scarf. 
And what dost thou so idly ? 
Why dost not strike ? 

Cces. Your old philosophers 

Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo. 

Am. Ay, 'gainst an oak. 

CcBs. A forest, when it suits me : I 

I combat with a mass, or not at all. | 

Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine; 
Which is just now to gaze, since all these la- 
borers 
Will reap my harvest gratis. 

Am. Thou art still 

A fiend ! 

CcBS. And thou — a man. 

Am. Why, such I fain would show me. 

CcBS. True — as men are. 

Am. And what is that ? 

Cces. Thou feelest and thou see'st. 

S^Exit A^^OIA), joining in the combat 7vhich 
still continues between detached parties. 
The scene closes. 

Scene III. — 6"/. Peter's.— The Interior of 
the Church. — The Pope at the Altar.— 
Priests, etc., crowding in confusion, and Cit- 
izens fiying for refuge, pursued by soldiery. 

Enter C/ESAR. 

A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, com- 
rades ! seize upon those lamps ! 



* [*' Levelling my arquebuse," says Benvenuto 
Cellini, " I discharged it with a deliberate aim at a 
person who seemed to be lifted above the rest. I 



SCENE III.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



713 



Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
His rosary's of gold ! 

Lutheran Soldier. Revenge ! revenge ! 
Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 

Cces. {interposing). How now, schismatic ? 
What wouldst thou ? 

Luth. Sold. In the holy name of Christ, 
Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 
Cces. Yea, a disciple that would make the 
founder 
Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 
Luth. Sold. I say he is the devil. 
Cces. Hush ! keep that secret. 

Lest he should recognize you for his own. 
Luth. Sold. Why would you save him ? I 
repeat he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 
Cces. And that's the reason: would you 
make a quarrel 
With your best friends ? You had far best be 

quiet ; 
His hour is not yet come. 

Luth. Sold. That shall be seen ! 

\^The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward ; a 
shot strikes him from one of the Pope's 
Guards, and he falls at the foot of the Al- 
tar. 
Cces. {to the Lutheran) . I told you so. 
Luth. Sold. And will you not avenge me ? 
C(Bs. Not I ! You know that " Vengeance 
is the Lord's : " 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

Luth. Sold, {dying). Oh! 

Had I but slain him, I had gone on high. 
Crowned with eternal glory! Heaven, forgive 
My feebleness of arm that reached him not, 
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'Tis 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon's 
No more; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sack- 
cloth 
And ashes ! [ The Lutheran dies. 

Cces. Yes, thine own amidst the rest. 

Well done, old Babel! 

[ The Guards defend themselves desperately, 
while the Pontiff escapes, by a private pas- 
sage, to the Vatican and the Castle of St. 
Angelo. 
Cces. Ha ! right nobly battled ! 

Now, priest ! now, soldier ! the two great pro- 
fessions, 
Together by the ears and hearts ! I have not 



cautiously approached the walls, and perceived that 
there was an extraordinary confusion among the 
assailants, occasioned by our having shot the duke 
of Bourbon: he was, as I understood afterwards, 
that chief personage whom I saw raised above the 
rest." — Vol. i. p. 120. This, however, is one of 
the many stories in Cellini's amusing autobiogra- 
phy which nobody credits.] 



Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus 
Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best 

then ; 
Now they must take their turn. 

Soldiers. He hath escaped ! 

Follow! 

Another Sold. They have barred the nar- 
row passage up. 
And it is clogged with dead even to the door. 

C<zs. I am glad he hath escaped : he may 
thank me for't 
In part. I would not have his bulls abolished — 
'Twere worth one half our empire : his indul- 
gences 
Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 
Fall ; — and besides, his now escape may fur- 
nish 
A future miracle, in future proof 
Of his infallibility. [ To the Spanish Soldiery. 

Well, cut-throats ! 
What do you pause for ? If you make not 

haste, 
There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
And you, too, catholics ! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
The very Lutherans have more true devotion : 
See how they strip the shrines ! 

Soldiers. By Holy Peter ! 

He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
The best away. 

Cces. And that were shame ! Go to ! 

Assist in their conversion. 

\_The Soldiers disperse; many quit the 
Church, others enter. 

Cces. They are gone. 

And others come : so flows the wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity, 
Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So, another ! 

Enter OlAUYlA, flying from the pursuit. She 
spri?tgs tipon the Altar. 

Sold. She's mine ! 

Another Sold, {opposing the former). You 
lie, I tracked her first ; and were she 
The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. 

[ They fight, 
jd Sold, {advancing towards Olimpia). 
You may settle 
Your claims ; I'll make mine good. 

01 imp . I n fe r n al si ave ! 

You touch me not alive. 
jd Sold. Alive or dead ! 

Olimp. {embracing a massive crucifix). Re- 
spect your God ! 
^d Sold. Yes, when he shines in gold. 

Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong 
and S7idden effort, casts down the crucifix : 
it strikes the Soldier, who falls. 
2d Sold. Oh, great God! 



714 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



[part II' 



Olimp. Ah ! now you recognize him. 
2,d Sold. My brain's crushed ! 

Comrades, help, ho ! All's darkness ! 

iHe dies. 
Other Soldiers {corning up). Slay her, al- 
though she had a thousand lives : 
She hath killed our comrade. 

Olimp. Welcome such a death ! 

You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
Would take. Great God ! through thy re- 
deeming Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, 
and thee ! 

Enter ARNOLD. 

Am. What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear ! 

C(BS. {aside and laughing). Ha! ha ! here's 
equity ! The dogs 
Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 
Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our com- 
rade. 
Am. With what weapon ? 
Sold. The cross, b'eneath which he is 
crushed ; behold him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she 

cast it 
Upon his head. 

Am. Even so ; there is a woman 

Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such. 
Ye woulu have honored her. But get ye hence, 
And thank your meanness, other God you 

have none 
For your existence. Had you touched a hair 
Of those dishevelled locks, I would have 

thinned 
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away! 
Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, 
But not even these till he permits. 

A Sold, {murmuring). The lion 

Might conquer for himself then. 

Am. {cuts him down). Mutineer! 

Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 

[ The Soldiers assault ARNOLD. 
Am. Come on ! I'm glad on't ! I will show 
you, slaves. 
How you should be commanded, and who led 

you 
First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale, 
Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As you are bold within it. 

[Arnold mows down the foremost ; the rest 

throw down their arms. 
Soldiers. Mercy! mercy! 

Am. Then learn to grant it. Have I 
taught you who 
Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements ? 
Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet 
forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
The conquest which you led to. 



Am. Get you hence 

Hence to your quarters ! you will find thenj 

fixed 
In the Colonna palace. 

01 itnp. {aside). In my father's 

House! 

Am. {to the Soldieis) . Leave your arms ■ 
ye have no further need 
Of such : the city's rendered. And mark wel 
You keep your hands clean, or I'll find out £ 

stream 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 
Soldiers {deposing their arms and depart 

ing) . We obey ! 
Am. {to Olimpia). Lady, you are safe. 
Olimp. I should be so 

Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
Death hath a thousand gates; and on the 

marble. 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my head be dashed 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man 

Am. I wish to merit his forgiveness, anc 
Thine own, although I have not injured thee 
Olimp. No ! Thou hast only sacked my 
native land, — 
No injury ! — and made my father's house 
A den of thieves ! No injury ! — this temple — 
Slippery with Roman and with holy gore. 
No injury ! And now thou would preserve me 

To be but that shall never be ! 

[She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her 

robe round her, and prepares to dash her\ 

self down on the side of the Altar oppositt 

to that where ARNOLD stands. 

Am, Hold! hold 8 

I swear. 

Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A perjury forwhich even hell would loathe thee' 
I know thee. 
Am. No, thou know'st me not; I am not 

Of these men, though 

Olimp, I judge thee by thy mates; 

It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shalt have of me. 
And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Where the baptismal font baptized me God's^ 
I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeemed infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia waves her hand to ARNOLD with 
disdain, and dashes herself on the pave- 
ment from the Altar, 
Am. Eternal God ! 

I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She's gone. 
Cces. {approaches). I am here. 

Am, Thou ! but oh, save her ! 
Cces, {assisting him to raise OlAMVlA.). She 
hath done it well ! 
The leap was serious. 



SCENE III.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



715 



Am. Oh ! she is lifeless ! 

CCBS. If 

She be so, I have nought to do with that : 
The resurrection is beyond me. 

Ar7i. Slave ! 

Cces. Ay, slave or master, 'tis all one : me- 
thinks 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

Am. Words ! — Canst thou aid her ? 

Cc£s. I will try. A sprinkling 

Of that same holy water may be useful. 

\^He brings some in his helmet from the font. 

Am. 'Tis mixed with blood. 

CcBS. There is no cleaner now 

In Rome. 

Am. How pale ! how beautiful ! how life- 
less ! 
Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
I love but thee ! 

Cces. Even so Achilles loved 

Penthesilea : with his form it seems 
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 

Am. She breathes I But no, 'twas nothing 
or the last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

Cces. She breathes. 

Arn. Thou say'st it ? Then 'tis truth. 

CcBs. You do me right — 

The devil speaks truth much oftenerthan he's 

deemed : 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

Arn. {without attetiding to hini). Yes! her 
heart beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wished to beat with mine should vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

CcBs. A sage reflection, 

But somewhat late i' the day. Where shall 

we bear her ? 
I say she lives. 

Am. And will she live ? 

Cess. As much 

As dust can. 

Am. Then she is dead ! 

Cces. Bah ! bah I You are so. 

And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
But we must work by human means. 

Am. We will 

Convey her unto the Colonna palace, 
Where I have pitched my banner. 

Cces. Come then ! raise her up 1 

Am. Softly ! 

Cces. As softly as they bear the dead. 

Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

Am. But doth she live indeed ? 

Cces. Nay, never fear ! 

But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 

Am. Let her but live ! 

Cces. The spirit of her life 

Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
Count ! count ! I am your servant in all things, 



And this is a new office : — 'tis not oft 
I am employed in such ; but you perceive 
How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
Now / desert not mine. Soft ! bear her hence, 
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit! 
I am almost enamoured of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 

Ar?t. Thou ! 

Cces. I! But fear not. I'll not be your 
rival. 

Am. Rival ! 

Cces. 1 could be one right formidable ; 

But since I slew the seven husbands of 
Tobias' future bride (and after all 
Was smoked out by some incense) , I have laid 
Aside intrigue : 'tis rarely worth the trouble 
Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again ; for there's 
The rub ! at least to mortals. 

Arn. Prithee, peace I 

Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

Cces. Like stars, no doubt; for that's a 
metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venus. 

Arn. To the palace 

Colonna, as I told you ! 

Cces. Oil ! I know 

My way through Rome. 

Am. Now onward, onward! Gently! 

[Fxeunt, bearing Olimpia. The scene 
closes. 



PART III. 

Scene I. — A Castle in the Apennines, sur- 
rounded by a wild but smiling country. 
Chorus of Peasants singing be/ore the Gates, 

CHORUS. 



The wars are over, 

The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 

2. 

The spring is come ; the violet's gone, 

The first-born child of the early sun : 

With us she is but a winter's flower, 

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 

And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 

To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 



And when the spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
Her heavenly odor and virgin hues. 



716 



WERNER. 



Pluck the others, but sti41 remember 
Their herald out of dim December — 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight's lengthened hours ; 
Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 

Enter C^SAR. 
CcBS. {singing) . The wars are all over, 
Our swords are all idle, 
The steed bites the bridle, 
The casque's on the wall. 
There's rest for the rover ; 
But his armor is rusty. 
And the veteran grows crusty, 
As he yawns in the hall. 

He drinks — but what's drinking ? 
A mere pause from thinking ! 
No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call. 

CHORUS. 

But the hound bayeth loudly, 

The boar's in the wood, 
And the falcon longs proudly 

To spring from her hood : 
On the wrist of the noble 

She sits like a crest, 
And the air is in trouble 

With birds from their nest. 



CcBS. Oh ! shadow of glory ! 

Dim image of war I 
But the chase hath no story, .r 

Her hero no star, ': 

Since Nimrod, the founder 

Of empire and chase. 
Who made the woods wonder 

And quake for their race ; 
When the lion was young, 

In the pride of his might, 
Then 'twas sport for the strong 

To embrace him in fight ; 
To go forth, with a pine 

For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth, 
Or strike through the ravine 

At the foaming behemoth; 
While man was in stature 

As towers in our time, 
The first-born of Nature, 

And, like her, sublime ! 

CHORUS. 
But the wars are over, 
The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home: 
They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo from every voice ! 
\Exeunt the Peasatitry, singing.- 



♦ »•> » 



WERNER; OR, THE INHERITANCE. 

A TRAGEDY. 



PREFACE. 



The following drama is taken entirely from the " German'' s Tale, Kruitzner" published many 
years ago in Lee's Canterbury Tales; written (I believe) by two sisters, of whom one furnished onlyl 
this story and another, both of which are considered superior to the remainder of the collection. ^ I have 
adopted the characters, plan, and even the language, of many parts of this story. Some of the charac- 
ters are modified or altered, a few of the names changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenheim) added ^ 
by myself: but in the rest the original is chiefly followed. When I was young (about fourteen, I think), 
I first read this tale, which made a deep impression upon me; and may, indeed, be said to contain the 
germ of much that I have since written. I am not sure that it ever was very popular; or, at any rate, 
its popularity has since been eclipsed by that of other great writers in the same department. But I haveil 



1 [This is not correct. " The Young Lady's Tale, or the Two Emily's," and " the Clergyman's Tale, 
or Pembroke," were contributed by Sophia Lee. The " German's Tale," and all the others in the Can- 
terbury Collection, were written by Harriet, the younger of the sisters.] 



WERNER. 717 



generally found that those who had read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the singular power of 
mind and conception which it develops. I should also add conception, rather than execution; for the 
story might, perhaps, have been developed with greater advantage. Amongst those whose opinions 
agreed with mine upon this story, I could mention some very high names: but it is not necessary, nor 
indeed of any use; for every one must judge according to his own feelings. I merely refer the reader to 
the original story, that he may see to what extent I have borrowed from it; and am not unwilling that 
he should find much greater pleasure in perusing it than the drama which is founded upon its contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 1815, (the first I ever attempted, except one at 
thirteen years old, called " Ulric and Uvina" which I had sense enough to burn,) and had nearly 
completed an act, when I was interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere amongst my papers in 
England; but as it has not been found, I have re-written the first, and added the subsequent acts. 

The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adapted, for the stage.^ 

Pisa, February, 1822. 



INTRODUCTION. 

The tragedy of " Werner" was begtm at Pisa, December the i8th, 1821, completed January the 20th, 
1822, and published in London in the November after. The contemporary reviews of " Werner" were, 
without exception, unfavorable. The critique in Blackwood begins thus: — 

" Who could be so absurd as to think, that a dramatist has no right to make free with other people's 
fables? On the contrary, we are quite aware that that particular species of genius which is exhibited in 
the construction of plots, never at any period flourished in England. We all know that Shakspeare him- 
self took his stories from Italian novels, Danish sagas, English chronicles, Plutarch's Lives — from any- 
where rather than from his own invention. But did he take the whole of Hamlet, or Juliet, or Richard 
the Third, or Antony and Cleopntra, from any of these foreign sources? Did he not invent, in the 
noblest sense of the word, all the characters of his pieces? Who dreams that any old Italian novelist, 
or ballad-maker, could have formed the imagination of such a creature as Juliet? Who dreams that the 
Hamlet of Shakspeare, the princely enthusiast, the melancholy philosopher, that spirit refined even to 
pain, that most incomprehensible and unapproachable of all the creations of human genius, is the same 
being, in any thing but the name, with the rough, strong-hearted, bloody-handed Amlett of the north? 
Who is there that supposes Goethe to have taken the character of his Faust from the nursery rhymes 
and penny pamphlets about the Devil and Doctor Faustus? Or who, to come nearer home, imagines 
that Lord Byron himself found his Sardanapalus in Dionysius of Halicarnassus? 

" But here Lord Byron has invented nothing — absolutely nothing. There is not one incident in 
his play, not even the most trivial, that is not to be found in Miss Lee's novel, occurring exactly in the 
same manner, brought about by exactly the same agents, and producing exactly the same effects on the 
plot. And then as to the characters, — not only is every one of them to be found in ' Kruitzner,' but 
every one is to be found there more fully and powerfully developed. Indeed, but for the preparation 
which we had received from our old familiarity with Miss Lee's own admirable work, we rather incline 
to think that we should have been unable to comprehend the gist of her noble imitator, or rather copier, 
in several of what seem to be meant for his most elaborate delineations. The fact is, that this undeviating 
closeness, this humble fidelity of imitation, is a thing so perfectly new in any thing worthy of the name 
of literature, that we are sure no one, who has not read the Canterbury Tales, will be able to form the 
least conception of what it amounts to. 

** Those who have never read Miss Lee's book, will, however, be pleased with this production; for, in 
truth, the story is one of the most powerfully conceived, one of the most picturesque, and at the same 
time instructive stories, that we are acquainted with. Indeed, thus led as we are to name Harriet Lee, we 
cannot allow the opportunity to pass without saying, that we have always considered her works as stand- 
ing upon the verge of the very first rank of excellence; that is to say, as inferior to no English novels 

1 [Werner, however, has been produced on the stage with tolerable success since Byron's death.] 



718 



WERNER. 



[act I. 



whatever, excepting those of Fielding, Sterne, Smollett, Richardson, Defoe, Radcliffe, Godwin, Edge- 
worth, and the author of Waverley. It would not, perhaps, be going too far to say, that the Canterbury 
Tales exhibit more of that species of invention which, as we have already remarked, was never common 
in Englishvliterature, than any of the works even of those first-rate novelists we have named, with the 
single exception of Fielding. 

" ' Kruitzner, or the German's Tale,' possesses mystery, and yet clearness, as to its structure;! 
strength of characters, and admirable contrast of characters; and, above all, the most lively interest,ti 
blended with and subservient to the most affecting of moral lessons. The main idea which lies at thej 
root of it is, the horror of an erring father, who, having been detected in vice by his son, has. dared to 
defend his own sin, and so to perplex the son's notions of moral rectitude, on finding that the son, in his 
turn, has pushed the false principles thus instilled to the last and worst extreme — on hearing his own 
sophistries flung in his face by a — Murderer." 

The reader will find a minute analysis, introduced by the above remarks, in Blackwood, vol. xii.i] 
p. 710. 



TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 



Werner. 

Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 

idenstein. 

Gabor. 

Fritz. 

Henrick. 

Eric. 



Arnheim. 

Meister. 

Rodolph. 

LUDWIG. 



Josephine. 

IDA Stralenheim. 



Scene — Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 
Time — the Close of the Thirty Years' War. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — The Hall of a decayed Palace 
near a small Town on the Northern Frontier 
of Silesia — the Night tempestuous. 

Werner and Josephine his -wife. 

yos. My love, be calmer ! 

Wer. I am calm. 

Jos. To me — 

Yes, but not to tliyself : thy pace is hurried, 
And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 



And stepping with the bee from flower to 

flower ; 
But here / 

Wer. 'Tis chill ; the tapestry lets through 
The wind to which it waves : my blood is 
frozen. 
yos. Ah, no! 
Wer. (smiling) . Why ! wouldst thou have 

it so? 
yos. I would 

Have it a healthful current. 

Wer. Let it flow 

Until 'tis spilt or checked — how soon, I care 
not. 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



719 



Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 
Wer. All — all. 

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which 

must break mine ? 
Wer. {approaching her slowly). But for 
thee I had been — no matter what, 
But much. of good and evil; what I am, 
Thou knowest; what I might or should have 

been, 
Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us, 

[Werner walks on abruptly, and then ap- 
proaches Josephine. 

The storm of the night 
Perhaps affects me; I'm a thing of feelings, 
And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, 

my love I 
In watching me. 
Jos. To see thee well is much — 

To see thee happy 

Wer. Where hast thou seen such ? 

L.et me be wretched with the rest I 

Jos. . But think 

How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain. 
Whose every drop bows them down nearer 

earth 
Which hath no chamber for them save be- 
neath 
Her surface. 

Wer. And that's not the worst : who cares 
For chambers ? rest is all. The wretches whom 
Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round them, 

and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their 

bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
A beggar, and should know the thing thou 
taik'stof. 
Jos. And art thou not now sheltered from 

them all ? 
Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 
Jos. And that is something. 

l\ 'er. True — to a peasant. 
Jos. Should the nobly born 

Be thankless for that refuge which their 

habits 
Of early delicacy render more 
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life ? 
Wer. It is not that, thou know'st it is not ; 
we 
Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently, 
Except in thee — but we have borne it. 
Jos. Well ? 

Wer. Something beyond our outward suf- 
ferings (though 
These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me oft, and, more tlian ever, now. 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 



Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and i 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but 

means, 
And leaves us — no! this is beyond me ! 2 — 

but 
For this I had been happy — thou been happy — 
Tiie splendor of my rank sustained — my 

name — 
My father's name — been still upheld; and, 

more 

Than those 

Jos. {abruptly). My son — our son — our 

Ulric, 
Been clasped again in these long-empty arms. 
And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
Twelve years 1 he was but eight then : — beau- 
tiful 
He was, and beautiful he must be now. 
My Ulric ! my adored ! 

Wer. I have been full oft 

The chase of Fortune ; now she hath o'ertaken 
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
Sick, poor, and lonely. 

Jos. Lonely I my dear husband ? 

Wer. Or worse — involving all I love, in 

this 
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, 
And all been over in a nameless grave. 

Jos. And I had not outlived thee; but 

pray take 
Comfort ! We have struggled long ; and they 

who strive 
With Fortune win or weary her at last. 
So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our 

boy. 
Wer. We were in sight of him, of every 

thing 



1 [In this play, Lord Byron adopts the same 
nerveless and pointless kind of blank verse, which 
was a sorrow to everybody in his former dramatic 
essays. It is, indeed, " most unmusical, most mel- 
ancholy." — "Ofs," "tos," "ands," "fors," "bys," 
" huts," and the like, are the most common conclu- 
sions of a line; there is no ease, no flow, no har- 
mony, "in linked sweetness long drawn out:" 
neither is there any thing of abrupt fiery vigor to 
compensate for these defects. — Blackwood.^ 

2 [This is, indeed, beyond us. If this be p>oetry, 
then we were wrong in taking his Lordship's pref- 
ace for prose. It will run on ten feet as well as the 
rest — (See p. 716, ante.) 

" Some of the characters are modified 
Or altered, a few of the names changed, and 
One character (Ida of Stralenheim) 
Added by myself; but in the rest the 
Original is chiefly followed. When 
I was young (about fourteen, I think) I 
First read this tale, which made a deep impessrion 
Upon me" — 

Nor is there a line in these so lame and halting, but 

we cnild point out many in the drama as bad. — 

Campbell. \ 



720 



WERNER. 



[act I. 



Which could bring compensation for past 

sorrow — 
And to be baffled thus ! 

Jos. We are not baffled. 

Wer. Are we not penniless ? 
"Jos. '/J ne'er were wealthy. 

Wer. But I was L orn to wealth, and rank, 

and power ; 
Enjoyed them, loved them, and, alas ! abused 

them, 
And forfeited them by my father's wrath, 
In my o'er-fervent youth ; but for the abuse 
Long sufferings have atoned. My father's 

death 
Left the path open, yet not without snares. 
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept 

me. 
Become the master of my rights, and lord 
Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
Dominion and domain. 

Jos. Who knows ? our son 

May have returned back to his grandsire, and 
Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? 

Wer. 'Tis hopeless. 

Since his strange disappearance from my 

father's. 
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
Himself, no tidings have revealed his course. 
I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
The promise that his anger would stop short 
Of the third generation; but Heaven seems 
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 
Jos. I must hope better still, — at least we 

have yet 
Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 

Wer. We should have done, but for this 

fatal sickness ; 
More fatal than a mortal malady. 
Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace : 
Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
By the snares of this avaricious fiend ; — • 
How do I know he hath not tracked us here ? 
Jos. He does not know thy person ; and 

his spies. 
Who so long watched thee, have been left 

at Hamburgh. 
Our unexpected journey, and this change 
Of name, leaves all discovery far behind: 
None hold us here for aught save what we 

seem. 
Wer, Save what we seem ! save what we 

are — sick beggars, 
Even to our very hopes. — Ha ! ha ! 

Jos. Alas ! 

That bitter laugh ! 

Wer. Who would read in this form 

The high soul of the son of a long line ? 
Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands ? 
W^ho^ in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 



Of rank and ancestry ? In this worn cheek 
And famine-hollowed brow, the lord of hails 
Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 

Jos. You 

Pondered not thus upon these worldly things, 
My We., er ! \vhen you deigned to choose for 

briue 
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 
Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast 

son 
Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 
To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 
Your father's house was noble, though de- 
cayed ; 
And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 
Jos. Your father did not think so, though 

'twas noble ; 
But had my birth been all my claim to match 
With thee, I should have deemed it what it is. 
Wer. And what is that in thine eyes ? 
Jos. All which it 

Has done in our behalf, — nothing. 

Wer. How, — nothing ? 

Jos. Or worse ; for it has been a-canker in 
Thy heart from the beginning: but for this, 
We had not felt our poverty but as 
Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully ; 
But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers, 
Thou mightst have earned thy bread, as thou- 
sands earn it; 
Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce. 
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 
Wer. {ironically'). And been an Hanse- 

atic burgher. Excellent ! 
Jos. Whate'er thou mightst have been, to 

me thou art 
What no state high or low can ever change, 
My heart's first choice ; — which chose thee, 

knowing neither 
Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride ; nought, sare 

thy sorrows : 
While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 
When they end, let mine end with them, or 

thee !i 
Wer. My better angel ! such I have ever 

found thee ; 
This rashness, or this weakness of my temper. 
Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or 

thine. 
Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own 

nature 
In youth was such as to unmake an empire. 
Had such been my inheritance; but now, 

1 [Werner's wife, Josephine, with the exception 
of Ida, the only femiile in llie drama, is an example 
of true and spotless virtue. A true woman, she not 
only well maintains the character of her sex by gen- 
eral integrity, but equally displays the endearing, 
soft, and unshaken affection of a wife; cherishing 
and comforting a sufiering husband throughout all 
the adversities of his fate, and all the errors of his 
own conduct. — Monthly Rev.^ 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



721 



Chastened, subdued, out-worn, and taught to 

know 
Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee ! 
Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentieth 

spring. 
My father barred me from my father's house, 
The last sole scion of a thousand sires, 
(For I was then the last,) it hurt me less 
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
Excluded in their innocence from what 
My faults deserved — exclusion ; although then 
My passion* were all living serpents, and 
Twined like the gorgon's round me. 

\A loud knocking is heard. 
Jos. Hark ! 

Wer. A knocking ! 

Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour ? We 
have 
Few visitors. 

Wer. And poverty hath none. 

Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
Well, I am prepared. 

[Werner ^«/j his hand into his bosom, as 

if to search for some weapon. 
Jos. Oh ! do not look so. I 

Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
In this lone spot of wintry desolation : — 
The very desert saves man from mankind. 

\She goes to the door. 

Enter iDENSTEIN.l 

Iden. A fair good evening to my fairer 
hostess 
And worthy — What's your name, my friend ? 

Wer. Are you 

Not afraid to demand it ? 

Iden. Not afraid ? 

Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 
I asked for something better than your name, 
By the face you put on it. 

Wer. Better, sir ! 

Iden. Better or worse, like matrimony: 
what 
Shall I say more ? You have been a guest 

this month 
Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure. 
His highness had resigned it to the ghosts 
And rats these twelve years — but 'tis still a 

palace) — 
I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
We do not know your name. 

Wer. My name is Werner. 

Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy name 
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board •. 
I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
The same. He is an officer of trust, 



^ [The most amusing fellow in the drama is 
Monsieur Idenstein; who makes the finest speech, 
too, beyond comparison, of any of the personages. 
The only wonder is, where he got it. — Eel. Rev.'\ 



Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon), 
And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 

Wer. To yours ? 

Jos. Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly. 

{Aside to WERNER. 
Cannot you humor the dull gossip till 
We learn his purpose ? 

Iden. Well, I am glad of that; 

I thought so all along, such natural yearnings 
Played round my heart : — blood is not water, 

cousin ; 
And so let's have some wine, and drink unto 
Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 
Friends. 

Wer. You appear to have drank enough 
already ; 
And if you had not, I've no wine to offer. 
Else it were yours : but this you know, or 

should know : 
You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 
What brings you here ? 

Iden. Why, what should bring me here ? 

Wer. I know not, though I think that I 
could guess 
That which will send you hence. 

Jos. {aside). Patience, dear Werner ! 

Iden. You don't know what has happened, 
then? 

Jos. How should we ? 

Iden. The river has o'erfiowed. 

Jos. Alas ! we have known 

That to our sorrow for these five days ; since 
It keeps .us here. 

Iden. But what you don't know is. 

That a great personage, who fain would cross 
Against the stream and three postilions' 

wishes, 
Is drowned below the ford, with five post- 
horses, 
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 

Jos. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 

Iden. Yes, of the monkey, 

And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
We know not if his excellency's dead 
Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown, 
As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
But what is certain is, that he has swallowed 
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peas- 
ants ; 
And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller. 
Who, at their proper peril, snatched him from 
The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
A lodging, or a grave, according as 
It may turn out with the live or dead body. 

Jos. And where will you receive him ? 
here, I hope. 
If we can be of service — say the word. 

Ideff. Here ? no ; but in the prince's own 
apartment. 
As fits a noble guest : — 'tis damp, no doubt. 



ni 



WERNER. 



[act t 



Not having been inhabited these twelve years ; | 
But then he comes from a much damper place, 
So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be 
Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
He'll be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertheless, 
I have ordered fire and all appliances 
To be got ready for the worst — that is, 
In case he should survive. 

Jos. Poor gentleman ! 

I hope he will, with all my heart. 

Wer. Intendant, 

Have you not learned his name ? My 

Josephine, \ Aside to his wife. 

Retire : I'll sift this fool. {Exii JOSEPHINE. 

Men. His name ? oh Lord ! 

Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
'Tis time enough to ask it when he's able 
To give an answer ; or if not, to put 
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
Just now you chid me for demanding names ? 

Wer. True, true, I did so; you say well 
and wisely. 

Enter Gabor. 

Gab. If I intrude, I crave 

Iden. Oh, no intrusion! 

This is the palace; this a stranger like 
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home : 
But Where's his excellency ? and how fares he ? 
Gab. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril : 
He paused to change his garments in a cot- 
tage, 
(Where I doffed mine for these, and came 

on hither) 
And has almost recovered from his drenching. 
He will be here anon. 

Iden. What ho, there ! bustle ! 

Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, 
Conrad I 
[Gives directions to different servants who 
enter. 
A nobleman sleeps here to-night — see that 
All is in order in the damask chamber — 
Keep up the stove — I will myself to the 

cellar — 
And Madame I denstein ( my consort , stranger) 
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel ; for. 
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of 

this 
Within the palace precincts, since his highness 
Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
His excellency will sup, doubtless? 

Gab. Faith ! 

I cannot tell ; but I should think the pillow 
Would please him better than the table after 
His soaking in your river : but for fear 
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
To sup myself, and have a friend without 
Who will do honor to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite. 

Iden. But are you sure 

His excellency But his name : what is it ? 



Gab. I do not know. 

Iden. And yet you saved his life. 

Gab. I helped my friend to do so. 

Iden. Well, that's strange, 

To save a man's life whom you do not know. 

Gab. Not so ; for there are some I know 
so well, 
I scarce should give myself the trouble. 

Iden. Pray, 

Good friend, and who may you be ? 

Gab. By my family, 

Hungarian. 

Idett. Which is called ? 

Gab. It matters little. 

Iden. {aside). I think that all the world are 
grown anonymous, 
Since no one cares to tell me what he's called ! 
Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 

Gab. Sufficient. 

Iden. How many ? 

Gab. I did not count them. 

We came up by mere accident, and just 
In time to drag him through his carriage 
window. 

Iden. Well, what would I give to save a 
great man ! 
No doubt you'll have a swinging sum as 
recompense. 

Gab. Perhaps. 

Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on ?. 

Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
In the mean time, my best reward would be 
A glass of your Hockcheimer — a green glass, 
Wreathed with rich grapes and Bacchanal 

devices, 
O'erfiowing with the oldest of your vintage ; 
For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
Run hazard ofbeing drowned, (although I own 
It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you,) 
I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my 

friend. 
And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
A wave the less may roll above your head. 

Iden. (aside). I don't much like this fellow 
— close and dry 
He seems, two things which suit me not; 

however 
Wine he shall have ; if that unlocks him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

[Ex/t 1 DENSTEIN. 

Gab. (to Werner). This master of the 
ceremonies is 
The intendant of the palace, I presume : 
'lis a fine building, but decayed. 

H'er. The apartment 

Designed for him you rescued will be found 
In fitter order for a sickly guest. 

Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not. 
For you seem delicate in health. 

Wer. (quickly'). Sir! 

Gab. Pray 

Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you? 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



723 



Wer. Nothing: but we are strangers to 
each other. 

Gab. And that's the reason I would have 
us less so : 
I thought our bustling guest without had said 
You were a chance and passing guest, the 

counterpart 
Of me and my companions. 

Wer. Very true. 

Gab. Then, as we never met before, and 
never. 
It may be, may again encounter, why, 
I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
(At least to me) by asking you to share 
The face of my companions and myself. 

Wer. Pray, pardon me ; my health 

Gab. Even as you please. 

I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
In bearing. 

Wer. I have also served, and can 

Requite a soldier's greeting. 

Gab. In what service ? 

The Imperial ? 

Wer. {quickly, and then interrupting him- 
self). I commanded — no — I mean 
I served ; but it is many years ago, 
When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
The Austrian, 

Gab. Well, that's over now, and peace 

Has turned some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
To live as they best may ; and, to say truth, 
Some take the shortest. 

Wer. What is that ? 

Gab. Whate'er 

They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
Their maintenance : the Chatelains must keep 
Their castle walls — beyond them 'tis but 

doubtful 
Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
I've little left to lose now. 

Wer. And I — nothing. 

Gab. That's harder still. You say you 
were a soldier. 

Wer. I was. 

Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are 
Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 
Our swords when drawn must cross, our 

engines aim 
(While levelled) at each other's hearts ; but 

when 
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
The spark which lights the matchlock, we are 

brethren. 
You are poor and sickly — I am not rich but 

healthy, 
I want for nothing which I cannot want; 
You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? 

[Gabor /////j out his purse. 



Wer. Who 

Told you I was a beggar ? 

Gab. You yourself. 

In saying you were a soldier during peace- 
time. 
Wer. {looking at him with suspicion). You 

know me not ? 
Gab. I know no man, not even 

Myself: how should I then know one 1 ne'er 
Beheld till half an hour since ? 

Wer. Sir, I thank you. 

Your offer's noble were it to a friend. 
And not unkind to an unknown stranger. 
Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank 

you. 
I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 
And when I beg of any one, it shall be 
Of him who was the first to offer what 
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. 

\^Exit Werner. 

Gab. {solus). A goodly fellow by his looks, 

though worn. 

As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure. 

Which tear life out of us before our time ; 

I scarce know which most quickly : but he 

seems 
To have seen better days, as who has not 
Who has seen yesterday? — But here ap- 
proaches 
Our sage intendant, with the wine : however, 
For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer. 

Enter IDENSTEIN. 

Men. 'Tis here ! the supernaculum 1 twenty 
years, 
Of age, if 'tis a day. 

Gab. Which epoch makes 

Young women and old wine ; and 'tis great 

pity. 
Of two such excellent things, increase of 

years, 
Which still improves the one, should spoil 

the other. 
Fill full — Here's to our hostess! — your fair 
wife ! [ Takes the glass. 

Men. Fair! — Well, I trust your taste in 
wine is equal 
To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge you 
Nevertheless. 

Gab. Is not the lovely woman 

I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 
An air, and port, and eye, which would have 

better 
Beseemed this palace in its brightest days 
(Though in a garb adapted to its present 
Abandonment), returned my salutation — 
Is not the same your spouse ? 

Men. I would she were ! 

But you're mistaken : — that's the stranger's 
wife. 
Gab. And by her aspect she might be a 
prince's : 



724 



WERNER. 



[act I. 



Though time hath touched her too, she still 

retains 
Much beauty, and more majesty. 

Iden. And that 

Is more than I can say for Madame Iden- 

stein, 
At least in beauty: as for majesty, 
She has some of its properties which might 
Be spared — but never mind ! 

Gab. I don't. But who 

May be this stranger ? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

Iden. There I differ. 

He's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
Except his name (and that I only learned 
To-night), I know not. 

Gab. But how came he here ? 

Iden. In a most miserable old caleche. 
About a month since, and immediately 
Fell sick, almost to death. He should have 
died. 

Gab. Tender and true ! — but why ? 

Iden. Why, what is life 

Without a living ? He has not a stiver. 

Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a 
person 
Of your apparent prudence should admit 
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 

Iden. That's true ; but pity, as you know, 
does make 
One's heart commit these follies ; and besides, 
They had some valuables left at that time. 
Which paid their way up to the present hour ; 
And so I thought they might as well be 

lodged 
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
They served to air them, at the least as long 
As they could pay for fire-wood. 

Gab. Poor souls ! 

Iden. Ay, 

Exceeding poor. 

Gab. And yet unused to poverty. 

If I mistake not. Whither were they going ? 

Iden. Oh ! Heaven knows where, unless to 
heaven itself. 
Some days ago that looked the likeliest jour- 
ney 
For Werner. 

Gab. Werner ! I have heard the name : 
But it may be a feigned one. 

Iden. Like enough ! 

But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency's come. 
I must be at my post : will you not join me. 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your humble duty at the door ? 

Gab. I dragged him 

From out that carriage when he would have 
given 



His barony or county to repel 

The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 

He has valets now enough : they stood aloof 
then. 

Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 

All roaring " Help ! " but offering none ; and 
as 

For duty (as you call it) — I did mine then. 

Now <lo yours. Hence, and bow and cringe 
him here! 
Iden. I cringe ! — but I shall lose the op- 
portunity — 

Plague take it! he'll be here, and I not there! 
{Exit IDENSTEIN hastily. 

Reenter WERNER. 

Wer. {to himself). I heard a noise of 

wheels and voices. How 
All sounds now jar me ! 

Still here ! Is he not {Perceiving Gabor. 
A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer '''^ 
So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore • ^ 

The aspect of a secret enemy; ■' »■' 

For friends are slow at such. 

Gab. Sir, you seem rapt ; 

And yet the time is not akin to thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The 

baron. 
Or count (or whatsoe'er this half-drowned 

noble 
May be) , for whom this desolate village and 
Its lone inhabitants show more respect 
Than did the elements, is come. 

Iden. {without). This way — 

This way, your excellency : — have a care, 
The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
Somewhat decayed ; but if we had expected 
So high a guest — Pray take my arm, my 

lord ! 

Enter STRALENHEIM, IdeNSTEIN, and At- 
tendants — partly his own, and partly Re- 
tainers of the Domain of which IDENSTEIN 
is Intendant. 

Stral. I'll rest me here a moment. 

Iden. {to the servants) . Ho ! a chair I 

Instantly, knaves ! [STRALENHEIM sits down. 

Wer. {aside) . 'Tis he 1 

Stral. I'm better now. 

Who are these strangers ? 

Iden. Please you, my good lord, 

One says he is no stranger. 

Wer. {aloud and hastily). Who says that ? 
[ They look at him with surprise. 

Iden. Why, no one spoke of you or to you/ 
— but 
Here's one his excellency may be pleased 
To recognize. {Pointing to Gabor. 

Gab. I seek not to disturb 

His noble memory. • ••■ 'y 

Stral. I apprehend • '/ 

This is one of the strangers to whose aid 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



725 



1 owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? 

{Pointing to WERNER. 
My state when I was succored must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 
Idcn. He! — no, my lord! he rather wants 
for rescue 
Than can afford it, 'Tis a poor sick man, 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dreamed to rise. 

Stral. Methought 

That there were two. 

Gab. There were, in company ; 

But, in the service rendered to your lordship, 
I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was rendered 
Was his : it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripped me ; therefore do not 

waste 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

Stral. Where is he ? 

An Atten. My lord, he tarried in the cot- 
tage where 
Your excellency rested for an hour. 
And said he would be here to-morrow, 

Stral. Till 

That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks. 

And then 

Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
So much. My comrade may speak for him- 
self. 
Stral. {fixing his eyes upon WERNER : then 
aside). 
It cannot be ! and yet he must be looked to. 
'Tis twenty years since I beheld him with 
These eyes ; and, though my agents still have 

kept 
Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
My own from his, not to alarm hifn into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hambuigh those who would have made 

assurance 
If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now. 
To have been lord of Siegendorf, and parted 
In haste, though even the elements appear 
To fight against me, and this sudden flood 

May keep me prisoner here till 

\_fie pauses, and looks at WERNER; then 
resumes. 

This man must 
Be watched. If it is he, he is so changed, 
His father, rising from his grave again. 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary : 
An error would spoil all. 

Iden. Your lordship seems 

Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 
Stral. 'Tis past fatigue which gives my 
weighed-down spirit 
An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 
Iden. The prince's chamber is prepared, 
with all 



The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendor. 

{Aside.) Somewhat tattered, 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torch- 
light ; 
And that's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment; 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like 

one 
Now, as he one day will forever lie, 

Stral. {rising and turning to Gabor). 
Good night, good people ! Sir, I trust 
to-morrow 
Will find me apter to requite your service. 
In the mean time I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber. 

Gab. I attend you. 

Stral. {after a fetv steps, pauses, and calls 
Werner). Friend! 

Wer. Sir ! 

Iden. Sir/ Lord — oh Lord! Why don't 
you say 
His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breed- 
ing. 
He hath not been accustomed to admission 
To such a presence. 

Stral. {to iDENSTEIN). Peace, intendant! 

Iden. Oh ! 

I am dumb. 

Stral. {to Werner). Have you been long 
here ? 

Wer. Long ? 

Stral. I sought 

An answer, not an echo. 

Wer. You may seek 
Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

Stral. Indeed ! Ne'er the less, 

You might reply with courtesy to what 
Is asked in kindness. 

Wer. When I know it such, 

I will requite — that is, reply — in unison. 

Stral. The intendant said, you had been 
detained by sickness -:- 
If I could aid you — journeying the same way ? 

Wer. {quickly). I am not journeying the 
same way ! 

Stral. How know ye 

That, ere you know my route ? 

Wer. Because there is 

But oneway that the rich and poor must tread 
Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days : hence- 
forth 
Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
All to one home. 

Stral. Your language is above 

Your station. 

Wer. {bitterly). Is it ? 

Stral. Or, at least, beyond 

Your garb, 



726 



WERNER. 



[act I. 



Wer, 'Tis well that it is not beneath it, 
As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me ? 
Stral. {startled) . I ? 

Wer. Yes — you ! You know me not, and 
question me. 
And wonder that I answernot — not knowing 
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have, 
And then I'll satisfy yourself, or me. 

Stral. I knew not that you had reasons 

for reserve. 
Wer. Many have such : — Have you none ? 
Stral. None which can 

Interest a mere stranger. 

Wer. Then forgive 

The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
Who can have nought in common with him. 
Stral. Sir, 

I will not balk your humor, though untoward : 
I only meant you service — but good night! 
Intendant, show the way! ( To Gabor.) Sir, 
you will with me ? 
\_Exeunt Stralenheim and attendants; 

IDENSTEIN and Gabor. 
Wer. {solus). 'Tis he! I am taken in the 
toils. Before 
I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward. 
Informed me that he had obtained an order 
From Brandenburg's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore) 

when 
I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ! But 
1 deemed this humble garb, and route obscure. 
Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
What's to be done ? He knows me not by 

person 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehen- 
sion. 
Have recognized him, after twenty years, 
We met so rarely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him ! Now I 

can 
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who 
No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralen- 

heim's, 
To sound and to secure me. Without 

means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding riv- 
ers. 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
All the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering peril with men's lives, — 
How can I hope ! An hour ago methought 
My state beyond despair ; and now, 'tis such, 
The past seems paradise. Another day, 
And I'm detected, — on the very eve 
Of honors, rights, and my inheritance, 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favoring an escape. 



Enter iDENSTEIN and FRITZ in conver- 
sation. 
Fritz. Immediately. 

Men. I tell you, 'tis impossible. 
Fritz. It must 

Be tried, however; and if one express 
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the command- 
dant. 
Iden. I will do what I can. 
Fritz. And .recollect 

To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

Iden. The baron is retired to rest? 
Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an 
easy chair 
Beside the fire, and slumbers; and has or- 
dered 
He may not be disturbed until eleven, 
When he will take himself to bed. 

Iden. Before 

An hour is past I'll do my best to serve him. 
Fritz. Remember ! \_Exit FRITZ. 

Iden. The devil take these great men ! they 
Think all things made for them. Now here 

must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
Their lives, despatch them o'er the river 

towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own ex- 
perience 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow- 
feeling: 
But no, " it must',' and there's an end. How 

now ? 
Are you there. Mynheer Werner ? 

Wer. You have left 

Your noble guest right quickly. 

Ide7i. • Yes — he's dozing, 

And seems to like that none should sleep be- 
sides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
But I must not lose time : Good night ! 

\^Exit I DEN. 
Wer. " To Frankfort! " 

So, so, it thickens ! Ay, " the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
He writes tor a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

[WERNER looks around, and snatches up a 
knife lying on a table in a recess. 

Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark, — footsteps! How do I know that 

Stralenheim 
Will wait for even the show of that authority 
Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 
That he suspects r.ie's certain. I'm alone; 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



727 



He with a numerous train. I weak ; he strong 
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
I nameless, or involving in my name 
Destruction, till I reach my own domain; 
He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
Strll further on these obscure petty burghers 
Than they could do elsewhere. Hark ! nearer 

still. 
I'll to the secret passage, which communicates 
With the No! all is silent — 'twas my 

fancy ! — 
Still as the breathless interval between 
The flash and thunder : — I must hush my soul 
Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire. 
To see if still be unexplored the passage 
I wot of: it will serve me as a den 
Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 
[Werner draws a panel, and exit, closing 

it after liiiu. 

Enter GABOR and JOSEPHINE. 

Gab. Where is your husband ? 

Jos. Here, I thought : I left him 

Not long since in his chamber. But these 

rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
To accompany the intendant. 

Gab. Baron Stralenheim 

Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
I have mv doubts if he means well. 

Jos. ' Alas! 

What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron, and the unknown Werner ? 

Gab. That you know best. 

Jos. Or, if it were so, how- 

Come you to stir yourself in his behalf. 
Rather than that of him whose life you saved ? 

Gab. I helped to save him, as in peril; but 
I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
Their thousand modes of trampling on the 

poor. 
I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up 

when 
I find them practising against the weak: — 
This is my only motive. 

Jos. It would be 

Not easy to persuade my consort of 
Your good intention!." 

Gab. Is he so suspicious ? 

J^ He was not once ; but time and trou- 
bles have 
Made him what you beheld. 

Gab. I'm sorry for it. 

Suspicion is a heavy armor, and 
With its own weight impedes more than pro- 
tects. 
Good night ! I trust to meet with him at day- 
break. S^Exit Gabor, 
Reenter IDENSTEIN and some Peasants. 

Josephine retires uf the Hc^ll, 



First Peasant. But if I'm drowned ? 
Iden. Why, you will be well paid for 't. 
And have risked more than drowning for as 

much, 
I doubt not. 
Second Peasant. But our wives and families ? 
Iden. Cannot be worse off than they are, 
and may 
Be better. 

Third Peasant. I have neither, and will 

venture. 
Iden. That's right. A gallant carle, and 
fit to be 
A soldier. I'll promote you to the ranks 
In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed; 
And you shall have besides, in sparkling coin. 
Two thalers. 

Third Peasant. No more ! 
Iden. Out upon your avarice ! 

Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ? '■■ 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one 

thaler ? 
When had you half the sum ? 

Third Peasant. Never — but ne'er 

The less I must have three. 

Ideti. Have you forgot 

Whose vassal you were born, knave ? 

lyiird Peasafit. No — the prince's. 

And not the stranger's. 

Iden. Sirrah ! in the prince's 

Absence, I'm sovereign ; and the baron is 
My intimate connection ; " Cousin Idenstein ! 
(Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains." 
And so, you villains ! troop — march — march, 

I say; 
And if a single dog's-ear of this packet 
Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it! 
For every page of paper, shall a hide 
Of yours be stretched as parchment on a 

drum, 
Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
Refractory vassals, who cannot effect 
Impossibilities — Away, ye earth worms! 

\_Exit, driving them out. 
Jos. {coming forivard). I fain would shun 
these scenes, too oft repeated. 
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot. 
The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still — the pride of 

rank 
In servitude, o'er something still more ser- 
vile ; 
And vice in misery affecting still 
A tattered splendor. What a state of being ! 
In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land. 
Our nobles were but citizens and merchant§( 



728 



WERNER. 



[act II. 



Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 
As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing 

valleys 
Made poverty more cheerful, where each 

herb 
Was in itself a meal, and every vine 
Rained, as it were, the beverage which makes 

glad 
The heart of man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 
(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leav- 
ing 
Plis warmth behind in memory of his beams) 
Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 
Oppressive than an emperor's jewelled purple. 
But, here! the despots of the north appear 
To imitate the ice-wind of their clime. 
Searching the shivering vassal through his 

rags, 
To wring his soul — as the bleak elements 
His form. And 'tis to be amongst these sov- 
ereigns 
My husband pants ! and such his pride of 

birth — 
That twenty years of usage, such as no 
Father born in a humble state could nerve 
His soul to persecute a son withal. 
Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 
But I, born nobly also, from my father's 
Kindness was taught a different lesson. 

Father ! 
May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 
Look down on us and our so long desired 
Ulric! I love my son, as thou didst me! 
What's that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be ? and 
thus? 

Enter WERNER hastily, with the knife in his 
hand, by the secret panel, which he closes 
hurriedly after him. 

Wer. {not at first recognizing her). Dis- 
covered! then I'll stab {Recognizing 

her.) 

Ah ! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest ? 

Jos. What rest ? My God ! 

What doth this mean ? 

Wer. {showing a rouleau). Here's gold 
— gold, Josephine, 
Will rescue us Irom this detested dungeon. 
yos. And how obtained ? — that knife ! 
Wer. 'Tis bloodless — yet. 

Away — we must to our chamber. 

yos. But whence comest thou ? 

Wer. Ask not ! but let us think where we 
shall go — 
This — this will make us way — {showing the 
gold) — I'll fit them now. 
yos. I dare not think thee guilty of dis- 
honor, 
Wer. Dishonor! 

yos. I have said it. 

W^r, Let us hence ; 



'Tis the last night, I trust, that we need pass 
here. 
yos. And not the worst, I hope. 
Wer. Hope ! I make sure. 

But let us to our chamber. 

yos. Yet one question — 

What hast thou done? 

Wer. {fiercely). Left one thing undone, 
which 
Had made all well : let me not think of it ! 
Away ! 

yos. Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! 

[^Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the same Palace. 

Enter IDENSTEIN and Others. 

Men. Fine doings! goodly doings ! honest 
doings! 
A baron pillaged in a firince's palace ! 
Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was 
heard of. 
Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats de- 
spoiled 
The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

Iden. Oh ! that I e'er should live to see 
this day ! 
The honor of our city's gone for ever. 

Fritz. Well, but now to discover the de- 
linquent. 
The baron is determined not to lose 
This sum without a search. 

Iden. And so am I. 

Fritz. But whom do you suspetJt ? 
Ideft. Suspect! all people 

Without — within — above — below — Heaven 
help me ! 
Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the 

chamber ? 
Iden. None whatsoever-. 
Fritz. Are you sure of that ? 

Iden. Certain. I have lived and served 
here since my birth, 
And if there were such must have heard of 

such. 
Or seen it. 

Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber. ^ 

Iden. Doubtless. 

Fritz. The man called Werner's poor! 
Iden. Poor as a miser. 

But lodged so far off, in the other wing. 
By which there's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
Besides, I bade him "good night" in the hall, 
Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
To his own apartment, about the same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
Appears to have been committed. 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



729 



Fritz. There's another, 

The St ranger 

Iden. The Hungarian ? 

Friiz. He who helped 

To fish the baron from the Oder. 

Iden. Not 

Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
One of the suite ? 

Fritz. How? WV, sir! 

Iden. No — XiO\.you, 

But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his embroidered night- 
gown ; 
His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold ; of which one only 
Has disappeared: — the door unbolted, with 
No difficult access to any. 

Fritz. Good sir. 

Be not so quick ; the honor of the corps 
Which forms the baron's household's unim- 

peached 
From steward to scullion, save in the fairway 
Of peculation ; such as in accompts. 
Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 
Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents, 
Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
The honest trades who furnish noble masters : 
But for your petty, picking, downright thiev- 
ery, 
We scorn it as we do board-wages. Then 
Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
His neck for one rouleau, but have swooped 

ail; 
Also the cabinet, if portable. 

Iden. There is some sense in that 

Fritz, No, sir, be sure 

'Twas none of our corps ; but some petty, tri- 
vial 
Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
The only question is — who else could have 
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself? 

Iden. You don't mean me ? 

Fritz. No, sir ; I honor more 

Your talents 

Iden. And my principles, I hope. 

Fritz. Of course. But to the point : What's 
to be done ? 

Iden. Nothing — but there's a good deal 
to be said. 
We'll offer a reward ; move heaven and earth. 
And the police (though there's none nearer 

than 
Frankfort) ; post notices in manuscript 
(For we've no printer) ; and set by my clerk 
To read them (for few can, save he and I). 
We'll send out villains to strip beggars, and 
Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
All gif>sies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 



Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit ; 
And for the baron's gold — if 'tis not found. 
At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
The ghost of this rouleau. Here's alchemy 
For your lord's losses 1 

Fritz. He hath found a better. 

Iden. Where? 

Fritz. In a most immense inheritance. 

The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kins- 
man, 
Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

Iden. Was there 

No heir ? 

Fritz. Oh, yes; but he has disappeared 
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the 

world. 
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 
If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
The baron would find means to silence him, 
Were he to reappear : he's politic, 
And has much influence with a certain court. 

Iden. He's fortunate. 

Fritz. 'Tis true, there is a grandson, 

Whom the late count reclaimed from his son's 

hands 
And educated as his heir ; but then 
His birth is doubtful, 

Iden. How so ? 

Fritz. His sire made 

A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage, 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter : 
Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorf s. The grandsire ill 
Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be 

brought 
To see the parents, though he took the son. 

Iden. If he's a lad of mettle, he may ye* 
Dispute your claim, and weave a welj that 

may 
Puzzle your baron to unravel. 

Fritz. Why, 

For mettle, he has quite enough : they say, 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
The strangest is, that he too disappeared 
Some months ago. 

Iden. The devil he did ! 

Fritz. Why, yes ; 

It must have been at his suggestion, at 
An hour so critical as was the eve 
Of the old man's death, whose heart was 
broken by it. 

Iden. Was there no cause assigned ? 

Fritz. Plenty, no doubt, 

And none perhaps the true one. Some averred 
It was to seek his parents ; some because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly 



730 



WERi^ER. 



[act li. 



(But that could scarce be, for he dote'd on 

him) ; 
A third beheved he wished to serve in war, 
But peace being made soon after his departure, 
He might have since returned, were that the 

motive ; 
A fourth set charitably have surmised. 
As there was something strange and mystic in 

him, 
That in the wild exuberance of his nature 
He had joined the black bands, who lay waste 

Lusatia, 
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
A kind of general condottiero system 
Of bandit warfare ; each troop with its chief. 
And all against mankind. 

Iden. That cannot be. 

A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 
To risk his life and honors with disbanded 
Soldiers and desperadoes ! 

Fritz. Heaven best knows ! 

But there are human natures so allied 
Unto tlie savage love of enterprise. 
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
I've heard that nothing can reclaim your In- 
dian, 
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
Were fed on milk and honey. After all, 
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torsteason and Wei- 
mar, 
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale ; 
And now that they are gone, and peace pro- 
claimed. 
They who would follow the same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
Until this morning. 

Etiter STRALENHEIM and UlriC. 

Stral. Since you have refused 

All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even 

them. 
Making me feel the worthlessness of words, 
And blush at my own barren gratitude, 
They seem so niggardly, compared with what 

Your courteous courage did in my behalf 

Ulr. I pray you pres%the theme no further, 

Stral. But 

Can 1 not serve you ? You are young, and of 

That mould which throws out hero.es ; fair in 

favor. 
Brave, I know, by my Uving now to say so ; 
And doubtlessly, with such a form and heart. 
Would look into the fiery eyes of war. 
As ardently for glory as you dared 
An obscure death to save an unknown stran- 
ger 



In an as perilous, but opposite, element. 
You are made for the service : I have served ; 
Have rank by birth and soldiership, and 

friends. 
Who shall be yours, 'Tis true this pause of 

peace 
Favors such views at present scantily ; 
But 'twill not last, men's spirits are too stirring ; 
And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
In every forest, or a mere armed truce. 
War will reclaim his own ; and, in the mean 

time. 
You might obtain a post, which would insure 
A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 
To rise. I speak of Brandenburg, wherein 
I stand well with the elector ; in Bohemia, 
Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
Upon its frontier. 

Ulr. You perceive my garb 

Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
Your offer, 'tis with the same feeling which 
Induced it. 

Stral. Why, this is mere usury 1 

I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
The acquittance of the interest of the debt. 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
I bow beneath them. 

Ulr. You shall say so when 

I claim the payment. 

Stral. Well, sir, since you will not — 

You are nobly born ? 

Ulr. I have heard my kinsman say so. 

Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask 
vour name ? 

Ulr. Ulric, 

Stral. Your house's ? 

Ulr. When I'm worthy of it, 

I'll answer you. 

Stral. {aside). Most probably an Austrian, 
Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
His lineage on these wild and dangerous fron- 
tiers. 
Where the name of his country is abhorred. 

{Aloud /^ Fritz and Idens tein. 
So, sirs ! how have ye sped in your researches ? 

Iden. Indifferent well, your excellency. 

Stral. Then 

I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 

Iden. Humph! —not exactly. 

Stral. Or at least suspected ? 

Iden. Oh ! for that matter, very much sus- 
pected. 

Stral. Who may he be ? 

Iden. Why, don X you know, my lord ? 

Stral. How should I ? I was fast asleep. 

Iden. And so 

Was I, and that's the cause I know no more 
Than does your excellency. /• I 

Stral. Dolt! .--.I 

Iden, Why, iff 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



731 



Your lordship, being robbed, don't recognize 
The rogue; how should I, not being robbed, 

identify 
The thief among so many ? In the crowd, 
May it please your excellency, vour thief looks 
Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
'Tis only at the bar and in the dungeon 
That wise men know your felon by his fea- 
tures ; 
But I'll engage, that if seen there but once. 
Whether he be found criminal or no, 
His face shall be so. 

Stral. {to Fritz). Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 

Fritz. Faith ! 

My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture, 
Stral. Besides the loss (which, I must 
own, affects me 
Just now materially), I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives ; for 
So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
And Hghted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would 

soon 
Leave bare your borough, Sir Intendant ! 

Iden. True ; 

If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 
Ulr. What is all this ? 
StraL You joined us but this morning, 

And have not heard that I was robbed last 
night. 
Ulr. Some rumor of it reached me as I 
passed 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
I know no further. 

Stral. It is a strange business ; 

The intendant can inform you of the facts. 

Iden. Most willingly. You see 

Stral. {impatiently). Defer your tale. 

Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

Iden. That 

Can only be approved by proofs. You 

see 

Stral. {again interrupting him, and ad- 
dressing Ulric). 
In short, I was asleep upon a chair, 
My cabinet before me, with some gold 
Upon it (more than I much like to lose, 
Though in part only) : some ingenious person 
Contrived to glide through all my own attend- 
ants. 
Besides those of the place, and bore away 
A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
I would be fain, and there's an end. Perhaps 
You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
To yesterday's great obligation, this. 
Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men 
(Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it ? 
Ulr. Most willingly, and without loss of 
time — 
( To IDENSTEIN.) Come hither, mynheer ! 



Iden. But so much haste bodes 

Right little speed, and 

Ulr. Standing motionless 

None ; so let's march : we talk as we go on. 

Iden. But 

Ulr. Show the spot, and then I'll answer 

you. 
Fritz. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 
Stral. Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 
Fritz. Hence ! 

Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy 
riddle ! 

\Exit ivith IDENSTEIN and FRITZ. 
Stral. {solus). A stalwart, active, soldier- 
looking stripling. 
Handsome as Hercules ere his first labor. 
And with a brow of thought beyond his years 
When m repose, till his eye kindles up 
In answering yours. I wish I could engage 

him : 
I have need of some such spirits near me now. 
For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 
And though I am not the man to yield with- 
out one, 
Neither are they who now rise up between me 
And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold 

one; 
But he hath played the truant in some hour 
Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
Champion his claims. That's well. The 

father, whom 
For years I've tracked, as does the blood- 
hound, never 
In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 
To fault ; but here I have him, and that's better. 
It must be he / All circumstance proclaims it ; 
And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
Of my inquiries, still confirm it. — Yes ! 
The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too. 
The intendant gave (for I have not beheld 

her) 
Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect ; 
Besides the antipathy with which we met, 
As snakes and lions shrink back from each 

other 
By secret instinct that both must be foes 
Deadly, without being natural prey to either ; 
All — all — confirm it to my mind. However, 
We'll grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 
The order comes from Frankfort, if these 

waters 
Rise not the higher (and the weather favors 
Their quick abatement) , and I'll have him safe 
Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
His real estate and name ; and there's no 

harm done. 
Should he prove other than I deem. This 

robbery 
(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also : 
He's poor, and that's suspicious — he's un- 
known, 



732 



WERNER. 



[ACT II. 



And that's defenceless. — True, we have no 

proofs 
Of guilt, — but what hath he of innocence ? 
Were he a man indifferent to my prospects. 
In other bearings, I should rather lay 
The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
Hath something which I like not; and alone 
Of all around, except the intendant, and 
The prince's household and my own, had in- 
gress 
Familiar to the chamber. 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you ? 

Gab. As those who fare well everywhere, 
when they 
Have supped and slumbered, no great matter 

how — 
And you, my lord ? 

Stral. Better in rest than purse : 

Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 

Gab. I heard 

Of your late loss ; but 'tis a trifle to 
One of your order. 

Stral. You would hardly think so, 

Were the loss yours. 

Gab. I never had so much 

(At once) in my whole hfe, and therefore am 

not 
Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
Your couriers are turned back — I have out- 
stripped them, 
In my return. 

Stral. You ! — Why ? 

Gab. I went at daybreak, 

To watch for the abatement of the river, 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all checked like myself; 
And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

Stral. Would the dogs were in it ! 

Why did they not, at least, attempt the pas- 
sage ? 
I ordered this at all risks. 

Gab. Could you order 

The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoln stream), and be obeyed, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

Stral. I must see to it : 

The knaves! the slaves! — but they shall 

smart for this. \Exit Stralenheim. 

Gab. (solus). There goes my noble, feudal, 
self-willed baron ! 
Epitome of what brave chivalry 
The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
His lands (if he hath any), and, still dearer, 
His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
As would have filled a liladder, while he lay 
Gurgling and foaming half way through the 
window 



Of his o'erset and water-logged conveyance. 
And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
Because they love their lives too ! Yet, he's 

right : 
'Tis strange they should, when such as he may 

put them 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! 

[Exit Gabor. 



Scene II. — T^e Apartment of WERNER, in 
the Palace. 

Enter JOSEPHINE and UlriC. 

Jos. Stand back, and let me look on thee 
again ! 
My Ulric? — my beloved ! — can it be — 
After twelve years ? 

Ulr. My dearest mother ! 

Jos. Yes ! 

My dream is realized — how beautiful ! — 
How more than all I sighed for! Heaven 

receive 
A mother's thanks ! — a mother's tears of joy ! 
This is indeed thy work!. — At such an hour, 

too. 
He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 

Ulr. If such a joy await me, it must double 
What I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
A part of the long debt of duty, not 
Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive 

me! 
This long delay was not my fault. 

Jos. I know it, 

But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 'tis so dazzled from 
My memory by this oblivious transport ! — 
My son! 

Enter WERNER. 

Wer. What have we here, — more stran- 
gers ? 

Jos. No ! 
Look upon him ! 

Wer. 
For the first time • 

Ulr. {kneeling) . For twelve long years, ray 
father ! 

Wer. Oh, God ! 

Jos. He faints! 

Wer. No — I am better now — 

Ulric! [Embraces him. 

Ulr. My father, Siegendorf ! 

Wer. {starting). Hush! boy — 

The walls may hear that name ! 

Ulr. What then ? 

Wer. Why. then — 

But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st 
i all 



What do you see ? 

A stripling. 



SCENE ir.J 



WERNER. 



733 



I 



I should have been, and was not. Josephine ! 
Sure 'tis no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
But, had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have 

chosen 
This for my son ! 

Ulr. And yet you knew me not ! 

Wer. Alas ! I have had that upon my soul 
Which makes me look on all men with an eye 
That only knows the evil at first glance. 

Utr. My memory served me far more 
fondly : I 
Have not forgotten aught; and oft-times in 
The proud and princely halls of — (I'll not 

name them, 
As you say that 'tis perilous) — but i' the 

pomp 
Of your sire's feudal mansion, I looked back 
To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset. 
And wept to see another day go down 
O'er thee and me, with those huge hills be- 
tween us. 
They shall not part us more. 

Wer. I know not that. 

Are you aware my father is no more ? 

Ulr. Oh, heavens ! I left him in a green 
old age. 
And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
Fell fast around him. 'Twas scarce three 
months since. 
Wer. Why did you leave him ? 
Jos. {embracing ij'LYAQ,). Can you ask that 
question ? 
Is he not here? 

Wer. True ; he hath sought his parents, 
And found them ; but, oh I how, and in what 
state ! 
Ulr. All shall be bettered. What we have 
to do 
Is to proceed, and to assert our rights, 
Or rather yours ; for I waive all, unless 
Your father has disposed in such a sort 
Of his broad lands as to make mine the fore- 
most, 
So that I must prefer my claim for form : 
But I trust better, and that all is yours. 

Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 
Ulr. I saved 

His life but yesterday : he's here. 

Wer. You saved 

The serpent who will sting us all ! 

Ulr. You speak riddles : what is this Stra- 
lenheim to us ? 
Wer, Every thing. One who claims our 
father's lands ; 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 
Ulr. I never heard his name till now. The 
count. 
Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 
If his own line should fail, might be remotely 
Involved in the succession ; but his titles 



Were never named before me — and what 

then ? 
His right must yield to ours. 

Wer. Ay, if at Prague : 

But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 
Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
By favor. 

Ulr. Doth he personally know you ? 
Wer. No; but he guesses shrewdly at my 
person. 
As he betrayed last night; and I, perhaps. 
But owe my temporary liberty 
To his uncertainty. 

Ulr. I think you wrong him 

(Excuse me for the phrase) ; but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so. 
He owes me something both for past and 

present. 
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me. 
He hath been plundered, too, since he came 

hither: 
Is sick; a stranger; and as such not now 
Able to trace tlie villain who hath robbed him : 
I have pledged myself to do so ; and the bus- 
iness 
Which brought me here was chiefly that : i 

but I 
Have found, in searching for another's dross. 
My own whole treasure, — you, my parents ! 

Wer. {agitatedly) . Who 

Taught you to mouth that name of " villain? " 
Ulr. What 

More noble name belongs to common 
thieves ? 
Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an 
unknown being 
With an infernal stigma ? 

Ulr. My own feelings 

Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 
Wer. Who taught you, long-sought and 
ill-found boy ! that 
It would be safe for my own son to insult me ? 
Ulr. I named a villain. What is there in 
common 
With such a being and my father ? 

Wer. Every thing ! 

That ruffian is thy father ! 2 

^ [The following is the original passage in the 
novel: — "Stralenheim," said Conrad, "does not 
appear to be altogether the man you take him for: 
but were it even otherwise, he owes me gratitude 
not only for the past, but for what he supposes to 
be my present employment. I saved his life, and 
he therefore places confidence in me. He hath 
been robbed last night — is sick — a stranger — and 
in no condition to discover the villain who has plun- 
dered him; and the business on which I sought the 
intendant was chiefly that," etc. — Miss Lee.\ 

2 [" ' And who,' said he, starting furiously from 
his seat, ' has entitled you to brand thus with igno- 
minious epithets a being you do not know? Who,' 
he added, with increasing agitation, * has taught 



m 



WRRNKR. 



[act li. 



7? 



Oh, my son ! 
md yet! (^Her voice 



Believe him not 

falters.) 
Ulr. {starts, looks earnestly <;/ WERNER, and 

then says slowly) . And you avow it ? 

Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise your 

father, 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
Rash, new to life, and reared in luxury's lap. 
Is it for you to measure passion's force. 
Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long, 
It Cometh like the night, and quickly) — 

Wait ! — 
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted i — 

till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your 

cabin ; 
Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er 

arrive — 
Should you see then the serpent, who hath 

coiled 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 
Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path. 
With but his folds between your steps and 

happiness, 
When he, who lives but to tear from, you name. 
Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
Chance your conductor; midnight for your 

mantle ; 
The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 'twere 
Inviting death, by looking like it, while 
His death alone can save you : — Thank your 

God! 
If then, like me, content with petty plunder. 

You turn aside I did so. 

Ulr, But 



you that it would be even safe for my son to insult 
me?' — ' It is not necessary to know the person of 
a ruffian,' replied Conrad indignantly, ' to give him 
the appellation he merits: — and what is there in 
common between my father and such a character?' 
— 'Everything,' said Siegendnrf, bitterly, — 'for 
that ruffian was your father!'" — Miss Lee.] 

1 [" Conrad, before you thus presume to chastise 
me with your eye, learn to understand my actions. 
Young, and inexperienced in the world — reposing 
hitherto in the bosom of indulgence and luxury, is 
it for you to judge of the force of the passions, or 
the temptations of misery? Wait till, like me, you 
have blighted your fairest hopes — have endured 
humiliation and sorrow — poverty and famine — 
before you pretend to judge of their effects on you! 
Should that miserable day ever arrive — should you 
see the being at your mercy who stands beiween 
you and every thing that is dear or noble in life! 
who is ready to tear from you your name — your 
inheritance — your very life itself — congratulate 
your own heart, if, like me, you are content with 
petty plunder, and are not tempted to exterminate 
a- serpent, who now lives, perhaps, to sting us all! " 
-/6td.] 



Wer. {abruptly). Hear me! 

I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me! You do not know this man — I 

do.--^ 
He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but 

learn 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couched within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least im- 
pulse — 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from 

earth. 
He was within my power — my knife was 

raised — 
Withdrawn — and I'm in his: — are you not 

so? 
Who tells you that he knows you not? Who 

says 
He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
To plunge you with your parents, in a dun- 
geon ? {^He pauses. 
Ulr. Proceed — proceed ! 
Wer. Me he hath ever known, 
And hunted through each change of time— 

name — fortune — 
And why not ^^?^? Are you more versed inl 

men ? 
He wound snares round me ; flung along my 

path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have 

spurned 
Even from my presence ; but, in spurning 

now. 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
More patient ? Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are 

crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear.^ 
Ulr. {looks first at him, and then at yose- 

phine) . My mother ! 



2 [" You do not know thi- man," continued he: 
"I do! I believe him to be mean, sordid, deceit- 
ful! You will conceive yourself safe, because you 
are young and brave! Learn, however, none are 
so secure but desperation or subtilty may reach 
them! Stralenheim, in the palace of a prince, was 
in my power! My knife was held over him — I 
forbore — and I am now in his," etc. etc. — Ibid.\ 

^ [" Me he has known invariably through every 
change of fortune or name — and why not you? 
Me he has entrapped — are you more discreet ? He 
has wound the snares of Idenstein around me; — of 
a reptile whom, a few years ago, I would have 
spurned from my presence, and whom, in .spurning 
now, I have furnished with fresh venom. Will you 
be more patient? Conrad, Conrad, there are crimes 
rendered venial by the occasion, and temptations 
too exquisite for human fortitude to mastet or for- 
bear," etc. etc. — Ibid.] 



SCENE II.] 



WERNER. 



735 



Wer. Ay ! I thought so : you have now 
Only one parent. 1 have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone. 

Ulr. But stay ! 

[Werner rushes out of the chamber. 
Jos. (to Ulric). Follow him not, until this 
storm of passion 
Abates. Think'st thou, that were it well for 

him, 
I had not followed ? 

67/-. I obey you, mother. 

Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of disobedience. 

Jos. Oh ! he is good ! 

Condemn him not from his own mouth, but 

trust 
To me, who have borne so much with him, 

and for him, 
That this is but the surface of his soul. 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 
[//r. These then are but my father's prin- 
ciples ? 
My mother thinks not with him ? 

Jos. Nor doth he 

Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of 

grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

i/tr. Explain to me 

More clearly, then, these claims of Stralen- 

heim. 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or at least 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this — but 

would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 

Jos. Ay ! 

Hadst thou but done so ! 

Enter GaBOR and IDENSTEIN, with Attend- 
ants. 

Gab. {to Ulric). I have sought you, com- 
rade. 
So this is my reward I 

Ulr. What do you mean ? 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! have I lived to these years, 
and for this ! 
( To IDENSTEIN.) But for your age and folly, 

I would 

I den. Help 1 

Hands off! Touch an intendant ! 

Gab. Do not think 

ril honor you so much as save your throat 
From the Ravenstone i by choking you 
mysrlf. 
Iden. I thank you for the respite : but there 
are 
Those who have greater need of it than me. 



^ Ravenstone, " Rabenstein," is the stone gibbet 
of Germany, and so called from the ravens perch- 
ing on it. 



Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

Gab. At once, then, 

The baron has been robbed, and upon me 
Tiiis worthy jjersonage has deigned to fix 
His kind suspicions — me! whom he ne'er 

saw 
Till ycster' evening. 

Iden. Wouldst have me susi)ect 

My own acquaintances ? You have to learn 
That I keep better company. 

Gab. You shall 

Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men, 
The worms ! you hound of malice ! 

[Gabor seizes on him. 

Ulr. {interferiftg). Nay, no violence: 

He's old, unarmed — be temperate, Gabor! 

Gab. (/^/■//'//^^^ IDENSTEIN). True: 

I am a lool to lose myself because 
Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 

Ulr. {to IDENSTEIN). How 

Fare you ? 

Men. Help ! 

Ulr. I have helped you. 

Iden. Kill him ! then 

I'll say so. 

Gab. I am calm — live on ! 

Iden. That's more 

Than you shall do, if there be judge or judg- 
ment 
In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 

Gab. Does he abet you in your accusation? 

Iden. Does he not ? 

Gab. Then next time let him go sink 

Ere I go hang for snatching him from drown- 
ing. 
But here he comes ! 

Enter STRALENHEIM. 

Gab. {goes up to him). My noble lord, I'm 
here ! 

Stral. Well, sir ! 

Gab. Have you aught with me ? 

Stral. What should I 

Have with you ? 

Gab. You know best, if yesterday's 

Flood has not washed away your memory ; 
But that's a trifle. I stand here accused, 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
Or chamber : — is the charge your own or his ? 

Stral. I accuse no man. 

Gab. Then you acquit me, baron ? 

Stral. I know not whom to accuse, or to 
acquit. 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

Gab. But you at least 

Should know whom fiot to suspect. I am in- 
sulted — ■• 
Oppressed here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty! 
To look for thieves at home"were part of it, 
If duly taiight ; but, in one word, if I 



736 



WERNER. 



[act n. 



Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
I am your equal. 

Stral. - You! 

Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 

Aught that you know, superior ; but proceed — 
I do not ask for hints, and surmises, 
And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
Of what I have done for you, and what you 

owe me. 
To have at least waited your payment rather 
Than paid myself, had I been eager of 
Your gold. I also know, that were I even 
The villain I am deemed, the service rendered 
So recently would not permit you to 
Pursue me to the death, except through shame. 
Such as would leave your scutcheon but a 

blank. 
But this is nothing: I demand of you 
Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
From your own lips a disavowal of 
All sanction of their insolence : thus much 
You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 
And never thought to have asked so much. 

Stral. This tone 

May be of innocence. 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! who dare doubt it 

Except such villains as ne'er had it ? 

Stral. You 

Are hot, sir. 

Gab. Must I turn an icicle 

Before the breath of menials, and their master? 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ; I found 
him in 
Your company. 

Gab. We found you in the Oder ; 

Would we had left you there ! 

Stral. I give you thanks, sir. 

Gab. I've earned them ; but might have 
earned more from others. 
Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ? 

Gab. No more than you do. 

If he avouches not my honor. 
^ Ulr. I 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connection led me, honor. 

Stral. Then 

I'm satisfied. 

Gab. {ironically). Right easily, methinks. 
What is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine ? 

Stral. I merely said that / 

Was satisfied — not that you are absolved. 

Gab. Again ! Am I accused or no ? 

Stral. Go to ! 

You wax too insolent. If circumstance 
And general suspicion be against you, 
Is the fault mine ? Is't not enough that I 
Decline all question of your guilt or innocence? 

Gab. My lord, my lord, this is mere cozen- 
age, 



A vile equivocation ; you well know 

Your doubts are certainties to all around 

you — 
Your looks a voice — your frowns a sentence ; 

you 
Are practising your power on me — because 
You have it ; but beware ! you know not whom 
You strive to tread on. 

Stral. Threat'st thou ? 

Gab. Not so much 

As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 

Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe you 
something. 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 
Gab. Not with your gold. 
Stral. With bootless insolence. 

\To his Attendants and IDENSTEIN. 
You need not further to molest this man, 
But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow ! 
\^Exit STRALENHEIM, IDENSTEIN, and At- 
tendants. 

Gab. {following). Til after him and 

Ulr. {stopping him). Not a step. 

Gab. Who shall 

Oppose me ? 

Ulr. Your own reason, with a moment's 
Thought. 

Gab. Must I bear this ? 
Ulr. Pshaw 1 we all must bear 

The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot tempt r Satan, 
Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
I've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things which had made this silkworm cast 

his skin — 
And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and 
words ? 
Gab. Must I bear to be deemed a thief? 
If 'twere 
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne 

it — 
There's something daring in it; — but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 

Ulr. It seems, then. 

You are not guilty ? 

Gab. Do I hear aright ? 

You too ! 
Ulr. I merely asked a simple question. 
Gab. If the judge asked me, I would 
answer " No" — 
To you I answer thus. {He draws. 

Ulr. {drawing). With all my heart ! 
Jos. Without there ! Ho ! help ! help ! — 
Oh, God! here's murder! 

{Exit Josephine, shrieking. 
[Gabor and XJ-LRIC Jight. Gabor is d-s- 
armedjustas STRALENHEIM, JOSEPHINE, 
IDENSTEIN, etc. reenter. 
Jos. Oh ! glorious heaven ! He's safe ! 
Stral. {to JOSEPHINE). Who's safe ? 
Jos. My 



SCENE II.] 



WERNER. 



737 



Ulr. {interrupting her with a stern look, 
and turning afterwards to STRALEN- 
HEIM). Both! 
Here's no great harm done. 
Stral. What hath caused all this ? 

Ulr. You, baron, I believe ; but as the 
effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor! 
There is your sword ; and when you bare it 

next. 
Let it not be against your friends. 
[IJLRIC pronounces the last words slowly and 
e?nphatically in a low voice to Gacor. 
Gab. I thank you 

Less for my life than for your counsel. 

Stral. These 

Brawls must end here. 

Gab. (taking his sword). Th^y shall. You 
have wronged me, Ulric, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword : 

I would 
The last were in my bosom rather than 
The first in yours. I could have borne yon 

noble's 
Absurd insinuations — ignorance 
And dull suspicion are a part of his 
Entail will last him longer than his lands. — 
But I may fit him yet : — you have vanquished 

me. 
I was the fool of passion to conceive 
That I could cope with you, whom I had 

seen 
Already proved by greater perils than 
Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by, 
However — but in friendship. 

{Exit Gabor. 

Stral. I will brook 

No more ! This outrage following up his 

insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has cancelled all the little 
I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succor. 
Ulric, you are not hurt ? — 

Ulr. Not even by a scratch. 

Stral. {to IDENSTEIN). Intendant ! take 
your measures to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke tny former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
The instant that the waters have abated. 
Jden. Secure him ! He hath got his sword 
again — 
And seems to know the use on't; 'tis his 

trade. 
Belike ; — I'm a civilian. 

Stral. Fool ! are not 

Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence ! 
after him ! 
Ulr. Baron, I do beseech you ! 
Stral. I must be 

Obeyed. No words! 
Iden. Well, if it must be so — 



March, vassals! I'm your leader, and will 

bring 
The rear up : a wise general never should 
Expose his precious Ufe — on which all rests. 
I like that article of war. 

{Exit IDENSTEIN and Attendants. 

Stral. Come hither, 

Ulric : what does that woman here ? Oh ! 

now 
I recognize her, 'tis the stranger's wife 
Whom they name " Werner." 

Ulr. 'Tis his name. 

Stral. Indeed ! 

Is not your husband visible, fair dame ? — 

yos. Who seeks him ? 

Stral. No one — for the present : but 

I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr. I will retire with you. 

yos. Not so : 

You are the latest stranger, and command 
All places here. 
{Aside to ULRIC, as she goes out.) O Ulric 1 

have a care — 
Remember what depends on a rash word ! 

Ulr. {to Josephine). Fear not ! — 

[Exit JOSEPHINE. 

Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you : 
You saved my life — and acts like these beget 
Unbounded confidence. 

Ulr. Say on. 

Stral. Mysterious 

And long-engendered circumstances (not 
To be now fully entered on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 

Ulr. Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 

St/al. No — this " Werner " — 

With the false name and habit. 

Ulr. How can this be ? 

He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
Sickness sits caverned in his hollow eye : 
The man is helpless. 

Stral. He is — 'tis no matter ; — 

But if he be the man I deem (and that 
He is so, all around us here — and much 
That is not here — confirm my apprehension) 
He must be made secure ere twelve hours 
further. 

U/r. And what have I to do with this ? 

St/al. I have sent 

To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburgh), 
For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 

U/r. It is abating. 

Straf. That is well. 

Ulr. But how 

Am I concerned ? 

Stral. As one who did so niuch 

For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
That which is of more import to me than 



738 



WERNER. 



[act III. 



The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him! 
The man avoids me, knows that I now know 

him. — 
Watch him! — as you would watch the wild 

boar when 
He makes against you in the hunter's gap — 
Like him he must be speared. 
Ulr. Why so ? 

Stral. He stands 

Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
Oh ! could you see it 1 But you shall. 

Ulr. I hope so. 

Stral. It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skimmed it lightly : so that now, besides 
Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
Confronted with whole realms far and near 
Made deserts. 

Ulr. You describe it faithfully. 

Stral. Ay — could you see it, you would 
say so — but, 
As I have said, you shall. 

Ulr. I accept the omen. 

Stral. Then claim a recompense from it 
and me, 
Such as both may make worthy your accep- 
tance 
And services to me and mine for ever. 

Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable 
wretch — 
This way-worn stranger — stands between you 

and 
This Paradise ? — (As Adam did between 
The devil and his) — [Aside.] 
Stral. He doth. 

Ulr. Hath he no right ? 

Stral. Right ! none. A disinherited prod- 
igal. 
Who for these twenty years disgraced his 

lineage 
In all his acts — but chiefly by his marriage. 
And living amidst commerce-fetching burgh- 
ers, 
And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 
Ulr. He has a wife, then ? 
Stral. You'd be sorry to 

Call such your mother. You have seen the 

woman 
He calls his wife. 
Ulr. Is she not so ? 

Stral. No more 

Than he's your father : — an Italian girl. 
The daughter of a banished man, who lives 
On love and poverty with this same Werner. 
Ulr. They are childless, then ? 
Stral. There is or was a- bastard. 

Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom, 
As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
But the imp stands not in my path — he has fled, 
Mo one knows whither ; and if he had not. 



His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand. — Why do you smile ? 

Ulr. At your vain fears : 

A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
Of doubtless birth — ■ can startle a grandee ! 
Stral. All's to be feared, where all is to be 

gained. 
Ulr. True ; and aught done to save or to 

obtain it. 
Stral. You have harped the very string 
next to my heart. 
I may depend upon you ? 

Ulr. 'Twere too late 

To doubt it. 

Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 

Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) — he is a wretch, as likely 
To have robbed me as the fellow more sus- 
pected, 
Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine : and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
To deem he would descend to such an act : 
Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once — though too rash. 

Ulr. And they, my lord, we know 

By our experience, never plunder till 
They knock the brains out first — which makes 

them heirs, 
Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, can 

lose nothing, 
Nor e'er be robbed : their spoils are a be- 
quest — 
No more. 

Stral. Go to ! you are a wag. But say 
I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man, 
And let me know his slightest movement 

towards 
Concealment or escape ? 

Ulr. You may be sure 

You yourself could not watch him more than I 
Will be his sentinel. 

Stral. By this you make me 

Yours, and for ever. 

Ulr. Such is my intention. [Exetmt. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the same Palace, from 
whence the secret passage leads. 

Enter WERNER and Gabor. 

Gab. Sir, I have told my tale: ifit so please 
you 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not, I'll try my fortune elsewhere. 

Wer. How 

Can I, so wretched, give to Misery 
A shelter ? — wanting such myself as much 
As e'er the hunted deer a covert 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



739 



Gab. Or 

The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
You rather look like one would turn at bay, 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

Wer. Ah ! 

Gab. - I care not 

If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same myself. But will you shelter me ? 
I am oppressed like you — and poor like you — 
Disgraced 

Wer. {abruptly). Who told you that I was 
disgraced ? 

Gab. No one; nor did I S2.y you were so: 
with 
Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
I said /was so — and would add, with truth. 
As undeservedly ?i'=> you. 

Wer. Again ! 

As/? 

Gab. Or any other honest man. 
What the devil would you have ? You don't 

believe me 
Guilty of this base theft ? 

Wer. No, no — I cannot. 

Gab. Why that's my heart of honor ! yon 
young gallant — 
Your miserly intendant and dense noble — 
AH — all suspected me ; and why ? because 
I am the worst-clothed, and least named 

amongst them ; 
Although, were Momus' lattice in your breasts, 
My soul might brook to open it more widely 
Than theirs: but thus it is — you poor and 

helpless — 
Both still more than myself. 

Wer. How know you that ? 

Gab. You're right : I ask for shelter at the 
hand 
Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
I were well paid. But you, who seem to have 

proved 
The wholesome bitterness of life, know well. 
By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about 
Could never tempt the man who knows its 

worth, 
Weighed at its proper value in the balance, 
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power. 
Because I feel it) as may leave no nightmare 
Upon his heart o' nights. 

Wer. What do you mean ? 

Gab. Just what I say ; I thought my speech 
was plain : 
You are no thief — nor I — and, as true men, 
Should aid each other. 

Wer. It is a damned world, sir. 

Gab. So is the nearest of the t\vo next, as 
The priests say (and no doubt they should 

know best) , 
Therefore I'll stick by this — as being loth 
To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 



It is but a night's lodging which I crave ; 

To-morrow 1 will try the waters, as 

The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 

Wer. Abated ? Is there hope of that ? 

Gab. There was 

At noontide. 

Wer. Then we may be safe. 

Gab. Are you 

In peril ? 

Wer. Poverty is ever so. 

Gab. That I know by long practice. Will 
you not 
Promise to make mine less ? 

Wer. Your poverty ? 

Gab. No — you don't look a leech for that 
disorder ; 
I meant my peril only : you've a roof. 
And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 

Wer. Rightly; for how should such a 
wretch as I 
Have gold ? 

Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't, 
Although I almost wish you had the baron's. 

Wer. Dare you insinuate ? 

Gab. What ? 

Wer. Are you aware 

To whom you speak ? 

Gab. No ; and I am not used 

Greatly to care. {A noise heard without^ But 
hark! they come! 

Wer. Who come ? 

Gab. The intendant and his man-hounds 
after me : 
I'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I 

go? 
But show me any place. I do assure you. 
If there be faith in man, I am most guilt-. 

less: 
Think if it were your own case ! 

Wer. {aside) . Oh, just God ! 

Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 
Gab. I see you're moved; and it shows 
well in you : 
I may live to requite it. 

Wer. Are you not 

A spy of Stralenheim's ? 

Gab. Not I ! and if 

I were, what is there to espy in you ? 
Although I re'collect his frequent question 
1 About you and your spouse might lead to 
some 
Suspicion; but you best know — what — and 

why 
I am his deadliest foe. 

Wer. You ? 

Gab. After such 

A treatment for the service which in part 
I rendered him, I am his enemy : 
If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 
Wer. I will. 
Gab. But how ? 



740 



WERNER. 



[act hi. 



Wer. {showing the panel). There is a secret 
spring. 
Remember, I discovered it by chance, 
And used it but for safety. 

Gab. Open it, 

And I will use it for the same. 

Wer. I found it, 

As I have said: it leads through winding 

walls, 
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness,) 
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
I know not whither ; you must not advance : 
Give me your word. 

Gab. It is unnecessary : 

How should I make my way in darkness 

through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 
Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it 
may lead ? 
I know not — (mark you !) — but who knows 

it might not 
Lead even into the chamber of your foe ? 
So strangely were contrived these galleries 
By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 
When man buih less against the elements 
Than his next neighbor. You must not ad- 
vance 
Beyond the two first windings ; if you do 
(Albeit I never passed them), I'll not answer 
For what you may be led to. 

Gab. But I will. 

A thousand thanks ! 

Wer. You'll find the spring more obvious 
On the other side ; and, when you would re- 
turn, , 
It yields to the least touch. 

Gab. I'll in — farewell! 

[GaBOR goes in by the secret panel. 
Wer. {solus). What have I done ? Alas! 
what had I done 
Before to make this fearful ? Let it be 
Still some atonement that I save the man. 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my 

own — 
They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before 
them! 

Enter IDENSTEIN attd Others. 

Men. Is he not here ? He rhust have van- 
ished then 

Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid 

Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow 

Casements, through which the sunset streams 
like sunrise 

On long pearl-colored beards and crimson 
crosses. 

And gilded crosiers, and crossed arms, and 
cowls, 

And helms, and twisted armor, and long 
swords, 

All the fantastic furniture of windows 



Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, 

whose 
Likeness and fame alike rest in some panes 
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any other life or glory. 
He's gone, however. 

Wer. Whom do you seek ? 

Men. ■ A villain. 

M'er. Why need you come so far, then ? 

Men. In the search 

Of him who robbed the baron. 

Wer. Are you sure 

You have divined the man ? 

Men. As sure as you 

Stand there : but where's he gone ? 

Wer. Who ? 

Men. He we sought. 

Wer. You see he is not here. 

Men. And yet we traced him 

Up to this hall. Are you accomplices ? 
Or deal you in the black art ? 

Wer. 1 deal plainly, 

To many men the blackest. 

Men. It may be 

I have a question or two for yourself 
Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
Our search for t'other. 

Wer. You had best begin 

Your inquisition now : I may not be 
So patient always. 

Men. I should like to know, 

In good sooth, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim's in quest of. 

Wer. Insolent ! 

Said you not that he was not here ? 

Men. Yes, one ; 

But there's another whom he tracks more 

keenly. 
And soon, it may be, with authority 
Both paramount to his and mine. But, come ! 
Bustle, my boys ! we are at fault. 

{Exit iDENSTEiN and Attendants. 

Wer, In what 

A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
The leaving undone one far greater, Down, 
Thou busy devil, rising in my heart ! 
Thou art too late! I'll nought to do with 
blood. 

Enter ULRIC. 

Ulr. I sought you, father. 

Wer. Is't not dangerous ? 

Ulr. No; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
Or any of the ties between us : more — 
He sends me here a spy upon your actions, 
Deeming me wholly his. 

Wer. I cannot think it : 

'Tis but a snare he winds about us both. 
To swoop the sire and son at once. 

Ulr. ' I cannot 

Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



741 



The doubts that rise like briers in our path, 
But must break through them, as an unarmed 

carle 
Would, though with naked limbs, were the 

wolf rustling 
In the same thicket where he hewed for bread. 
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so : 
We'll overfly or rend them. 

Wer. Show me how ? 

Ulr. Can you not guess ? 

Wer. I cannot. 

Ulr. That is strange. 

Came the thought ne'er into your mind last 
night? 

Wer. I understand you not. 

Ulr. Then we shall never 

More understand each other. But to change 
The topic 

Wer. You mean to pursue it, as 

'Tis of our safety. 

Ulr. Right ; I stand corrected. 

I see the subject now more clearly, and 
Our general situation in its bearings. 
The waters are abating ; a few hours 
Will bring his summoned myrmidons from 

Frankfort, 
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse. 
And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
Of this same baron to make way for him. 

Wer. And now your remedy! I thought 
to escape 
By means of this accursed gold ; but now 
1 dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 
And for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
With hissing snakes, which curl around my 

temples. 
And cry to all beholders, Lo ! a villain ! 

Ulr. You must not use it, at least now; 
but take 
This ring. [^He gives WERNER a jewel. 

Wer. A gem 1 It was my father's ! 

Ulr. And 

As such is now your own. With this you must 
Bribe the intendant for his old caleche 
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
Together with my mother. 

Wer. And leave you, 

So lately found, in peril too ? 

Ulr. Fear nothing ! 

The only fear were if we fled together. 
For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
The waters only lie in flood between 
This burgh and Frankfort ; so far's in our favor. 
The route on to Bohemia, though encum- 
bered. 
Is not impassable ; and when you gain 
A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
The frontier, and you're safe. 

\\ er. My noble boy ! 



Ulr. Hush! hush! no transports: we'll 
indulge in them 
In Castle Siegendorf I Display no gold : 
Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man, 
And have looked through him) : it will an- 
swer thus 
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 
No jewel : therefore it could not be his ; 
And then the man who was possest of this 
Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
The baron's coin, when he could thus con- 
vert 
This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
By his last night's slumber. Be not over 

timid 
In your address, nor yet too arrogant. 
And Idenstein will serve you. 

Wer. I will follow 

In all things your direction. 

Ulr. I would have 

Spared you the trouble ; but had I appeared 
To take an interest in you, and still more 
By dabbling with a jewel in your favor. 
All had been known at once. 

Wer. My guardian angel ! 

This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
Fare in our absence ? 

Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 

Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 
I will but wait a day or two with him 
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 

Wer, To part no more ! 

Ulr. I know not that ; but at 

The least we'll meet again once more. 

Wer. My boy ! 

My friend ! my only child, and sole preserver ! 
Oh, do not hate me ! 

Ulr. Hate my father ! 

Wer. ' Ay, 

My father hated me. Why not my son ? 

Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 

Wer. Scorpions 

Are in thy words ! Thou know me ? in this 

guise 
Thou canst not know me, I am not myself; 
Yet (hate me not) I will be soon, 

Ulr. I'll wait/ 

In the mean time be sure that all a son 
Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 

Wer. I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 
Further — that you despise me. 

Ulr. Wherefore should I ? 

Wer. Must I repeat my humiliation ? 

Ulr. No! 

I have fathomed it and you. But let us talk 
Of this no more. Or, if it must be ever; 
Not nozv. Your error has redoubled all 
The present difficulties of our house, 
At secret war with that of Stralenheim : 
All we have now to think of is to baffle 
Him. I have shown one way. 

W'er. The only one« 



742 



WERNER 



[act ni. 



And I embrace it, as I did my son, 

Who showed himself and father's safety in 

One day. 

Ulr. You shall be safe ; let that suffice.- 
Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia 
Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 
Admitted to our lands ? 

Wer. Assuredly, 

Situate as we are now, although the first 
Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest, 
Especially the next in blood. 

Llr. Blood I 'tis 

A word of many meanings; in the veins. 
And out of them, it is a different thing — 
And so it should be, when the same in blood 
(As it is called) are aliens to each other, 
Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad, 
A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 

Wer. I do not apprehend you. 

Ulr. That may be — 

And should, perhaps — and yet but get 

ye ready ; 
You and my mother must away to-night. 
Here comes the intendant : sound him with 

the gem; 
'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead 
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud, 
And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead 

doth 
With its greased understratum ; but no less 
Will serve to warn our vessels through these 

shoals. 
The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 
Farewell ! I scarce have time, but yet your 

hand, 
My father ! 

Wer. Let me embrace thee ! 

Ulr. We may be 

Observed : subdue your nature to the hour ! 
Keep off from me as from your foe ! 

Wer. Accursed 

Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts ; 
At such an hour too ! 

Ulr. Yes, curse — it will ease you ! 

Here is the intendant. 

Enter IDENSTEIN. 

Master Idenstein, 
How fare you in your purpose ? Have you 

caught 
The rogue ? 

Men. No, faith 1 

Ulr. Well, there are plenty more : 

You may have better luck another chase. 
Where is the baron ? 

Iden. Gone back to his chamber : 

And now I think on't, asking after you 
Witli nobly-born impatience. 

Ulr. Your great men 

Must be answered on the instant, as the 
bound 



Of the stung-steed replies unto the spur : 
'Tis well they have horses, too ; for if they had 

not, 
I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
They say kings did Sesostris. 

Idcn. Who was he ? 

Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial 
gipsy. 

Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, tis the same, 
For they pass by both names. And was he 
one? 

Ulr. I've heard so ; but I must take leave. 
Intendant, 
Your servant ! — Werner {to Werner slight- 
ly) , if that be your name. 
Yours. [Exit Ulric-. 

Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young 
man ! 
And prettily behaved ! He knows his station. 
You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 
Precedence ! 

Wer. I perceived it, and applaud 

His just discernment and your own. 

Iden. That's well — 

That's very well. You also know your place, 

too; 
And yet I don't know that I know your 
place. 

Wer. {showing the ring). Would this as- 
sist your knowledge ? 

Iden. H ow ! — What ! — Eh ! 

A jewel ! 

Wer. 'Tis your own on one condition. 

Iden. Mine 1 — Name it ! 

Wer. That hereafter you permit me 

A'f thrice its value to redeem it : 'tis 
A family ring. 

Iden. A family! — yours! — a gem! 

I'm breathless! 

Wer. You must also furnish me 

An hour ere daybreak with all means to quit 
This place. 

Iden. But is it real ? Let me look on it : 
Diamond, by all that's glorious ! 

Wer. Come, I'll trust you : 

You have guessed, no doubt, that I was born 

above 
My present seeming. 

'Iden. I can't say I did. 

Though this looks hke it : this is the true 

breeding 
Of gentle blood! 

Wer. I have important reasons 

For wishing to continue privily 
My journey hence. 

Iden. So then you are the man 

Whom Stralenheim's in quest of? 

Wer. I am not ; 

But being taken for him might conduct 
So much embarrassment to me just now, 
And to the baron's self hereafter — 'tis 
To spare both that I would avoid all bustle. 



SCENE Hi.] 



WERNER. 



743 



Iden. Be you the man or no, 'tis not my 

business. 
Besides, I never should obtain the half 
From this proud, niggardly noble, who would 

raise 
The country for some missing bits of coin. 
And never offer a precise reward — 
But this ! — another look ! 

Wer. Gaze on it freely ; 

At day-da\\n it is yours. 

Iden. Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 

Thou more than stone of the philosopher! 
Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself ! 
Thou bright eye of the Mine 1 thou loadstar of 
The soul ! the true magnetic Pole to which 
All hearts point duly north, like trembling 

needles ! 
Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth I which, sit- 
ting 
High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
More worship than the majesty who sweats 
Beneath the crown which makes his head 

ache, like 
Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre ! 
Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, already 
A little king, a lucky alchemist 1 — 
A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
Werner, or what else ? 

Wer. Call me Werner still. 

You may yet know me by a loftier title. 

Iden. I do believe in thee ! thou art the 

spirit 
Of whom I long have dreamed in a low 

garb.— 
But come, I'll serve thee ; thou shalt be as free 
As air, despite the waters ; let us hence : 
I'll show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel I) 
Thou shalt be furnished, Werner, with such 

means 
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
Should overtake thee. — Let me gaze again ! 
I have a foster-brother in the mart 
Of Hamburgh skilled in precious stones. 

How many 
■^arats may it weigh ? — Come, Werner, I 

will wing thee. \^Exeunt. 

Scene II. — Stralenheim's Chamber. 
Stralenheim and Fritz. 

Fritz. All's ready, my good lord ! 

Stral. I am not sleepy. 

And yet I must to bed ; I fain would say 
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit. 
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for 

slumber. 
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky. 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor 

yet 
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 



'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between 

man 
And man, an everlasting mist; — I will 
Unto my pillow. 

Fritz. May you rest there well ! 

Stral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 
Fritz. And wherefore fear ? 

Stral. I know not why, and therefore do 
fear more, 

Because an undescribable but 'tis 

All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last 

night's 
Adventure makes it needful. 

Fritz. Certainly, 

According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
Who saved your life. I think they call hiin 
"Ulric." 
Stral. You think! you supercilious slave! 
what right 
Have you to tax your memory, which should 

be 
Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 
Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
Whose daily repetition marks your duty. — 
Get hence! " You thi7ik" indeed! you who 

stood still 
Howling and drippling on the bank, whilst I 
Lay dying, and the stranger dashed aside 
The roaring torrent, and restored me to« 
Thank him — and despise you. " You think ! " 

and scarce 
Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 
More words on you. Call me betimes. 

Fritz. Good night ! 

I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
To renovated strength and temper. 

[ The scene closes. 

Scene III.— The Secret Passage. 

Gab. (solus). Four — 

Five — six hours have I counted, like the 

guard 
Of outposts on the never-merry clock : 
That hoHow tongue of time, which, even when 
It sounds for joy, takes something from en- 
joyment 
With every clang. 'Tis a perpetual knell, 
Though for a marriage-feast it rings : each 

stroke 
Peals for a hope the less ; the funeral note 
Of Love deep-buried without resurrection 
In the grave of Possession; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple Time in the son's ear. 

I'm cold — 
I'm dark; — -I've blown my fingers — num- 
bered o'er 
And o'er my steps — and knocked my head 
against 



744 



WEkMRk. 



[act lit 



Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 

And bats in general insurrection, till 

Their cursed pattering feet and whirling wings 

Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 

A light ! It is at distance (if I can 

Measure in darkness distance) : but it blinks 

As through a crevice or a key-hole, in 

The inhibited direction : I must on, 

N^iVfjrtheless, from curiosity. 

A distant lamp-light is an incident 

In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead 

me 
To nothing that may tempt me! Else — 

Heaven aid me 
To obtain or to escape it 1 Shining still ! 
Were it the star of Lucifer himself. 
Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 
Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well ! 
That corner's turned — so — ah ! no ; — right ! 

it draws 
Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — so. 
That's weathered. — Let me pause. — Sup- 
pose it leads 
Into some greater danger than that which 
I have escaped — no matter, 'tis a new one; 
And novel perils, like fresh mistresses. 
Wear more magnetic aspects : — I will on. 
And be it where it may — I have my dagger. 
Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn 

still, 
Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus ! 
My stationary Will-o'-the-wisp ! — So ! so 1 
He hears my invocation, and fails not. 

\The scene closes. 

Scene I v. — yi Garden, 

Enter WERNER. 

Wer. I could not sleep — and now the 
hour's at hand; 
All's ready. Idenstein has kept his word ; 
And stationed in the outskirts of the town. 
Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh 1 never, 

never 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
But not dishonored : and I leave them with 
A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
My heart ! — a never-dying canker worm, 
Which all the coming splendor of the lands. 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
Can scarcely lull a moment. I must find 
Some mean's of restitution, which would ease 
My soul in part ; but how without discovery ? — 
It must be done, however; and I'll pause 
Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
The madness of my misery led to this 
Base infamy ; repentance must retrieve it : 
I will have nought of Stralenhcim's upon 



My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
Lands, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps! as 

soundly. 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows. 

Such as when Hark ! what noise is that ? 

Again ! 
The branches shake ; and some loose stones 

have fallen 
From yonder terrace. 

[UlriC leaps down from the terrace. 
Ulric ! ever welcome ! 

Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

Ulr. Stop! Before 

We approach, tell me 

Wer. Why look you so? 

Ulr. Do I 

Behold my father, or 

Wer. What ? 

Ulr. An assassin? 

Wer. Insane or insolent! 
Ulr. Reply, sir, as 

You prize your life, or mine ! 

Wer. To what must I 

Answer ? 

Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenheim ? 

Wer. I never was as yet 

The murderer of any man. What mean you ? 
Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night 
before) 
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber? and 

\\5'L^\Q, pauses. 
Wer. Proceed. 

Ulr. Died he not by your hand ? 

Wer. Great God! 

Ulr. You are innocent, then ! my father's 
innocent ! 
Embrace me ! Yes, — your tone — your 

look — yes, yes, — 
Yet say so. 

Wer. If I e'er, in heart or mind. 

Conceived deliberately such a thought. 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment 

through 
The irritation of my oppressed spirit — 
May heaven be shut forever from my hopes 
As from mine eyes ! 

Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead. 

Wer. 'Tis horrible! 'tis hideous, as 'tis 
hateful ! — 
But what have I to do with this ? 

Ulr. No bolt 

Is forced ; no violence can be detected, 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarmed ; but as the intendant is 
Absent, I took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the poHce. His chamber has, 
Past doubt, been entered secretly. Excuse me, 
If nature 



SCENE IV.] 



WERNER. 



745 



Wer. Oh, my boy! what unknown woes 
Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
Above our house ! 

Ulr. My father ! I acquit you ! 

But will the world do so ? will even the judge. 
If But you must away this instant. 

Wer. No ! 

I'll face it. Who shall dare suspect me ? 

Ulr. Yet 

You had no guests — no visitors — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 

Wer. Ah ! 

The Hungarian ! 

Ulr. He is gone ! he disappeared 

Ere sunset. 

Wer. No ; I hid him in that very 

Concealed and fatal gallery. 

Ulr. There I'll find him. 

[UlriC is going. 

Wer. It is too late : he had left the palace 
ere 
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
Which masks it : I but thought he had 

snatched the silent 
And favorable moment to escape 
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
Dogging him yester-even. 

Ulr. You reclosed 

The panel ? 

Wer. Yes ; and not without reproach 

(And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
Of a discovery. 

Ulr. You are sure you closed it ? 

Wer. Certain, 

Ulr. That's well ; but had been better, if 

You ne'er had turned it to a den for 

\He pauses. 

Wer. Thieves ! 

Thou wouldst say : I must bear it and de- 
serve it ; 
But not 

Ulr. No, father ; do not speak of this : 

This is no hour to think of petty crimes, 
But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Why would you shelter this man ? 

Wer. Could I shun it ? 

A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 
For my own crime ; a victim to 7ny safety. 
Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Have in such circumstances thrust him forth, 

Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. 
But 
It is too late to ponder thus : — you must 
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace the murderer, if 'tis possible. 

Wer. But this my sudden flight wiU give 
the Moloch 



Suspicion : two new victims in the lieu 
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 

Who seems the culprit, and 

Ulr. Who seems f Who else 

Can be so ? 

Wer. Not /, though just now you 

doubted — 

You, my son! — doubted 

Ulr. And do you doubt of him 

The fugitive ? 

Wer. Boy ! since I fell into 

The abyss of crime (though not of such 

crime), I, 
Having seen the innocent oppressed for me. 
May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your 

heart 
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 
Appearances ; and views a criminal 
In Innocence's shadow, it may be, 
Because 'tis dusky. 

Ulr. And if I do so, 

What will mankind, who know you not, or 

knew 
But to oppress? You must not stand the 

hazard. 
Away I — I'll make all easy. Idenstein 
Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold 
His peace — he also is a partner in 

Your flight — moreover 

Wer. Fly ! and leave my name 

Linked with the Hungarian's, or preferred as 

poorest. 
To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! leave anything 

Except our father's sovereignty and castles. 
For which you have so long panted and in 

vain ! 
What name f You have no name since that 

you bear 
Is feigned, 

Wer. Most true; but still I would not 

have it 
Engraved in crimson in men's memories, 
Though in this most obscure abode of men — 

Besides, the search 

Ulr. I will provide against 

Aught that can touch you. No one knows 

you here 
As heir of Siegendorf : if Idenstein 
Suspects, 'tis but suspicion, and he is 
A fool : his folly shall have such employment. 
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
To nearer thoughts of self. The law s (if e'er 
Laws reached this village) are all in abeyance 
With the late general war of thirty years, 
Or crushed, or rising slowly from the dust, 
To which the march of armies trampled them. 
Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
Here, save as such — without lands, influence, 
Save what hath perished with him. Few pro- 
long 
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 



746 



WERNER. 



[ACT IV. 



O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
Is roused : such is not here the case ; he died 
Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave, 
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon. 
Is all he'll have, or wants. If / discover 
The assassin, 'twill be well — if not, believe me 
None else ; though all the full-fed train- of 

menials 
May howl above his ashes (as they did 
Around him in his danger on the Oder), 
Will no more stir a finger now than then. 
Hence ! hence ! I must not hear your answer. 

— Look ! 
The stars are almost faded, and the gray 
Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
You shall not answer : — Pardon me that I 
Am peremptory ; 'tis your son that speaks, 
Your long-lost, late-found son. — Let's call 

my mother ! 
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
To me: I'll answer for the event as far 
As regards jt?//, and that is the chief point, 
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf — once more 
Our banners shall be glorious ! Think of that 
Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me, 
Whose youth may better battle with them. — 

Hence! 
And may your age be happy ! — I will kiss 
My mother once more, then Heaven's speed 

be with you ! 
Wer. This counsel's safe — but is it honor- 
able ? 
Ulr. To save a father is a child's chief 

honor. {^Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene \.— A Gothic Hall in the Castle of 
Siegendorf, near Prague. 

Enter ERIC and Henrick, Retainers of the 
Count. 

Eric. So better times are come at last ; to 
these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail — 

both 
A long desideratum. 

Hen. Yes, for masters. 

It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
Though made by a new grave: but as for 

wassail, 
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf main- 
tained 
His feudal hospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire. 

Eric. Why, 

For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces 
season 



The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

Hen. The old count loved not 

The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 

Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as 
he's bounteous. 
And we all love him. 

Hen. His reign is as yet 

Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon. 
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal : 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

Eric. Pray Heaven he keep the present ! 
Then his brave son. Count Ulric — there's a 

knight. 
Pity the wars are o'er I 

Hen. Why so ? 

Eric. Look on him 1 

And answer that yourself. 

Hen. He's very youthful. 

And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 

Eric. That's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 

Hen. But 

Perhaps a true one. 

Eric. Pity, as I said, 

The wars are over : in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride. 
Which awes, but yet offends not ? in the field, 
Who like him with his spear in hand, when, 

gnashing 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howhng hounds, the boar makes for the 

thicket ? 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or 

wears 
A sword like him ? Whose plume nods 
knightlier ? 

Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, 
if war 
Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

Eric. What do you mean ? 

Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our native fellow vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
As {Pauses.) 

Eric. What ? 

Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves 
living. 
Like other parents, she spoils her worst 
children. 

Eric. Nonsense ! they are all brave iron- 
visaged fellows. 
Such as old Tilly loved. 

Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 
Ask that at Magdebourg — or for that matter 
Wallenstein either ; — they are gone to 

Eric. Rest ; 

But what beyond 'tis not ours to pronounce. 

He]}. I wish they had left us something of 
their rest : 



SCENE I.] 



WERMER. 



747 



The country (nominally now at peace) 
Is over-run with — God knows who : they fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more. 
Than the most open warfare. 

Eric. But Count Ulric — 

What has all this to do with him ? 

Hen. With him! 

He might prevent it. As you say he's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those ma- 
rauders ? 

Eric. You'd better ask himself. 

Hen. I would as soon 

Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 

Eric. And here he comes ! 

Hen. The devil ! you'll hold your tongue ? 

Eric. Why do you turn so pale ? 

Hen. 'Tis nothing — but 

Be silent. 

Eric. I will, upon what you have said. 

Hen. I assure you I meant nothing — a 
mere sport 
Of words, no more ; besides, had it been 

otherwise, 
He is to espouse the gentle Baroness 
Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress ; 
And she, no doubt, will soften whatsoever 
Of fierceness th« late long intestine wars 
Hath given all natures, and most unto those 
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
The knees of Homicide ; sprinkled, as it were, 
With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, 

peace 
On all that I have said ! 

Enter Ulric and RODOLPH. 

Good morrow, count. 

Ulr. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
All ready for the chase ? 

Eric. The dogs are ordered 

Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat the bushes, and the day looks prom- 
ising. 
Shall I call forth your excellency's suite ? 
What courser will you please to mount ? 

Ulr. The dun, 

Walstein. 

. Eric. I fear he scarcely has recovered 
The toils of Monday : 'twas a noble chase : 
You speared four with your own hand. 

Ulr. True, good Eric ; 

I had forgotten — let it be the gray, then. 
Old Ziska : he has not been out this fortnight. 

Eric. He shall be straight caparisoned. 
How many 
Of your immediate retainers shall 
Escort you ? 

Ulr. I leave that to Weilburgh, our 

Master of the horse. {Exit Eric. 

Rodolph ! 

Rod. My lord ! 

Ulr. The news 



Is awkward from the — (RODOLPH points to 
Henrick.) 

How now, Henrick ? why 
Loiter you here ? 

Hen. For your commands, my lord. 

Ulr. Go to my father, and present my duty, 

And learn if he would aught with me before 

I mount. [^.r//' Henrick. 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 

Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 

'Tis rumored that the column sent against them 

Is to be strengthened. I must join them soon. 

Rod. Best wait for further and more sure 

advices. 
Ulr. I meant it — and indeed it could not 
well 
Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plans. 

Rod. It will be difficult 

To excuse your absence to the count your 
father. 
Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our 
domain 
In high Silesia will permit and cover 
My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 
Whom Wolffe leads — keep the forests on 

your route : 
You know it well ? 

Rod. As well as on that night 

When we 

Ulr. We will not speak of that until 

We can repeat the same with like success: 
And when you have joined, give Rosenberg 
this letter. \Gives a letter. 

Add further, that I have sent this slight addi- 
tion 
To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald of 
My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
At this time, as my father loves to keep 
Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, 
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 
Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida? 
Ulr. Why, 

I do so — but it follows not from that 
I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 
So brief and burning, with a lady's zone, 
Although 'twere that of Venus; — but I love 

her, 
As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 
Rod. And constantly ? 
Ulr. I think so ; for I lore 

Nought else, — But I have not the time to 

pause 
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good 
Rodolph I 
Rod. On my return, however, I shall find 
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegen- 
dorf? 
Ulr. Perhaps my father wishes it ; and sooth 



748 



WERNER. 



[act IV. 



"Ti's no bad policy : this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

Rod. Adieu. 

Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 
Until the chase begins; then draw thou off, 
And do as I have said. 

Rod. I will. But to 

Return — 'twas a most kind act in the count 
Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
For this fair orphan of the baron, and 
To hail her as his daughter. 

Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 

Especially as little kindness till 
Then grew between them. 

Rod. The late baron died 

Of a fever, did he not ? 

Ulr. How should I know ? 

Rod. I have heard it whispered there was 
something strange 
About his death — and even the place of it 
Is scarcely known. 

Ulr. Some obscure village on 

The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 

Rod. He 

Has left no testament — no farewell words ? 

Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
So cannot say. 

Rod. Ah I here's the lady Ida. 

Enter Ida Stralenheim.i 

Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin ! 

Ida. Not too early, 

Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
Why do you call me "cousin?" 

Ulr. {smiling) . Are we not so ? 

Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name ; me- 
thinks 
It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
Our pedigree, and only weighed our blood. 

Ulr. {starting). Blood! 

Ida. Why does yours start from your 
cheeks ? 

Ulr. Ay I doth it ? 

Ida. It doth — but no! it rushes like a tor- 
rent 
Even to your brow again. 

Ulr. {recovering himself). And if it fled. 
It only was because your presence sent it 
Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet 
cousin ! 

Ida. " Cousin " again. 

Ulr. Nay, then, I'll call you sister. 

Ida. I like that name still worse. — Would 
we had ne'er 
Been aught of kindred ! 



' [Ida, the new personage, is a precocious girl 
of fifteen, in a great hurry to be married; and who 
has very little to do in the business of the play, but 
to produce an effect by fainting at the discovery of 
the villany of her beloved, and partially touching 
on it in a previous scene. — Eel. jRev.] 



Ulr. {gloomily). Would we never had ! 

Ida. Oh heavens ! and can you wish that? 

Ulr. Dearest Ida ! 

Did I not echo your own wish ? 

Ida. Yes, Ulric, 

But then I wished it not with such a glance. 
And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that 
I still to you am something. 

Ulr. You shall be 

AH — all 

Ida. And you to me are so already ; 

But I can wait. 

Ulr. Dear Ida! 

Ida. Call me Ida, 

Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
Indeed I. have none else left, since my poor 
father — \She pauses. 

Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 

Ida. Dear Ulrie, how I wish 

My father could but view my happiness. 
Which wants but this ! 

Ulr. Indeed I 

Ida. You would have loved him, 

He you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
Proud (as is birth's prerogative) ; but under 

This grave exterior Woulgl you had known 

each other ! 
Had such as you been near him on his jour- 
ney. 
He had not died without a friend to soothe 
His last and lonely moments. 

Ulr. Vlhosdiys that? 

Ida. What? 

Ulr. That he died alone. 

Ida. The general rumor, 

And disappearance of his servants, who 
Have ne'er returned : that fever was most 

deadly 
Which swept them all away. 

Ulr. If they were near him, 

He could not die neglected or alone. 

Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a deathbed. 
When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
It loves ? — They say he died of a fever. 

Ulr. Say/ 

It was so. 

Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 

Ulr. All dreams are false. 

Ida. And yet I see him as 

I see you. 

Ulr. Where? 

Ida. In sleep — I see him lie 

Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Beside him. 

Ulr. But you do not see his face ? 

Ida {looking at him) . No ! Oh, my God ! 
do you ? 

Ulr. Why do you ask ? 

Ida. Because you look as if you saw a 
murderer ! 



scene' I.] 



WERNER. 



749 



Ulr. {agitatedly). Ida, this is mere child- 
ishness ; your weakness 
Infects ine, to my shame ; but as all feelings 
Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change 

Ida. Child, indeed I I have 

Full fifteen summers! [. / bugle sounds. 

Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 

Ida {peevishly to Rodolph). Why need 
you tell him that ? Can he not hear it 
Without your echo ? 

Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness ! 

Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn 
it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 

Rod. You will not. 

Lady, need aid of mine. 

Ulr. I must not now 

Forego it. 

Ida. But you shall ! 

Ulr. Shall! 

Ida. Yes, or be 

No true knight. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to 

me 
In this, for this one day : the day looks heavy. 
And you are turned so pale and ill. 

Ulr. You jest. 

Ida. Indeed I do not : — ask of Rodolph. 

Rod. Truly, 

My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
You have changed more than e'er I saw you 

change 
In years. 

Ulr. 'Tis nothing ; but if 'twere, the air 
Would soon restore me. I'm the true cha- 
meleon, 
And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
My spirit — I'm a forester and breather 
Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
The eagle loves. 

Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 

Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies 
home. 

Ida. And will you not stay, then ? You 
shall not go ! 
Come 1 I will sing to you. 

Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 

Will make a soldier's wife. 

Ida. I do not wish 

To be so ; for I trust these wars are over. 
And you will live in peace on your domains. 

/f/z/e'r Werner as Count Siegendorf. 

Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves 
me 
With such brief greeting. — You have heard 

our bugle ; 
The vassals wait. 
Sieg. 3o let them. — You forget 



To-morrow is the appointed festival 

In Prague for peace restored. You are apt 

to follow 
The chase with such an ardor as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
Returned, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
The nobles in our marshalled ranks. 

Ulr. You, count, 

Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

Sieg. No, Ulric : 

It were not well that you alone of all 

Our young nobility • 

Ida. And far the noblest 

In aspect and demeanor. 

Sieg. {to Ida). True, dear child, 

Though somewhat frankly said for a fair dam- 
sel. — 
But, Ulric, recollect too our position. 
So lately reinstated in our honors. 
Believe i7ie, 'twould be marked in any house, 
But most in ours, that ONE should be found 

wanting 
At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
Which gave us back our own, in the same 

moment 
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double 

claims 
On us for thanksgiving: first, for our country ; 
And next, that we are here to share its bless- 
ings. 
Ulr. {aside). Devout, too! Well, sir, I 
obey at once. ' 

( Then aloud to ,a Servant.) 
Ludwig, dismiss the train without ! 

[Exit Ludwig. 
Ida. And so 

You yield at once to him what I for hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

Sieg. {smiling). You are not jealous 

Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
Would sanction disobedience against all 
Except thyself? But fear not; thou shalt 

rule him 
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 
Ida. But I should like to govern now. 
Sieg. You shall. 

Your harp, which by the way awaits you with 
The countess in her chamber. She com- 

plams 
That you are a sad truant to your music : 
She attends you. 

Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kins- 
men ! 
Ulric, you'll come and hep.r me ? 

Ulr. By and by. 

Ida. Be sure I'll sound it better than your 
bugles ; 
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes : 
I'll play you King Gustavus' march. 

Ulr. And why not 

Old Tilly's ? 



750 



WERNER. 



[act IV. 



Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 
My harp-strings rang with groans, and not 

with music, 
Could aught oi his sound on it: — but come 

quickly ! 
Your mother will be eager to receive you. 

\Exit Ida. 
Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you 

alone. 
Ulr. My time's your vassal. 
{Aside to RODOLPH.) Rodolph, hence! and 

do 
As I directed : and by his best speed 
And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 
Rod. Count Siegendorf, command you 
aught ? I am bound 
Upon a journey past the frontier. 

Sieg. {starts). Ah ! — 

Where ? on what frontier ? 

Rod. The Silesian, on 

My way — {Aside to ULRIC.) — Where shall 
I say ? 
Ulr. (aj-/^^/<7 Rodolph). To Hamburgh. 
{Aside to himself.) That 
Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on 
His further inquisition. 
Rod. Count, to Hamburgh. 

Sieg. {agitated). Hamburgh! No, I have 
nought to do there, nor 
Am aught connected with that city. Then 
God speed you ! 
Rod. Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf! 

\Exit Rodolph. 
Sieg. Ulric, this man, who has just de- 
parted, is 
One of those strange companions whom I 

fain 
Would reason with you on. 

Ulr. My lord, he is 

Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
In Saxony. 

Sieg. I talk not of his birth. 

But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 
Ulr. So they will do of most men. Even 
the monarch 
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, 

or 
The sneer of the last courtier whom he has 

made 
Great and ungrateful. 

Sieg. If I must be plain, 

The world speaks more than lightly of this 

Rodolph : 
They say he is leagued with the " black bands " 

who still 
Ravage the frontier. 

Ulr. And will you belieye 

The world ? 

Sieg. In this case — yes. 

Ulr. In any case, 

I thought you knew it better than to take 
An accusation for a sentence, 



Sieg. Son ! 

I understand you : you refer to but 

My Destiny has so involved about me 
Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 
Ulric ; you have seen to what the passions led 

me : 
Twenty long years of misery and famine 
Quenched them not — twenty thousand more, 

perchance. 
Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
Might date for years, did Anguish make the 

dial) 
May not obliterate or expiate 
The madness and dishonor of an instant. 
Ulric, be warned by a father ! — I was not 
By mine, and you behold me! 

Ulr. I behold 

The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
Lord of a prince's appanage, and honored 
By those he rules and those he ranks with. 

Sieg. Ah ! 

Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 

For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 

All hearts but one may beat in kindness for 

me — 

But if my son's is cold ! 

Ulr. Who dare say that ? 

Sieg. None else but I, who see it — feel it 
— keener 
Than would your adversary, who dared say so. 
Your sabre in his heart! But mine survives 
The wound. 

Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 

To outward fondling: how should it be so. 
After twelve years' divorcement from my 
parents ? 
Sieg. And did not / too pass those twelve 
torn years 
In alike absence ? But 'tis vain to urge you — 
Nature was never called back by remon- 
strance. 
Let's change the theme. I wish you to con- 
sider 
That these young violent nobles of high name. 
But dark deeds (ay, the darkest, if all Rumor 
Reports be true), with whom thou consortest. 

Will lead thee 

Ulr. {impatie7itly). I'll be ledhy no man. 
Sieg. Nor 

Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida — more 
As thou appear'st to love her. 

Ulr. I have said 

I will obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 
Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It 
is not 
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coplly, 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



751 



Or act so carelessly, in that which is 

The bloom or bliglit ot all men's happiness, 

(For Glory's pillow is but restless if 

Love lay not down his cheek there) : some 

strong bias, 
Some master fiend is in thy service to 
Misrule the mortal who believes him slave, 
And makes his every thought subservient ; else 
Thou'dst say at once — "I love young Ida, and 
Will wed her; " or, " I love her not, and all 
The powers of earth shall never make me." — 

So 
Would I have answered. 

Ulr. Sir, you wed for love ? 

Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

Ulr. Which miseries 

Had never been but for this love-match. 
. Sieg. Still 

Against your age and nature ! Who at twenty 
E'er answered thus till now ? 

Ulr. Did you not warn me 

Against your own example ? 

Sieg. Boyish sophist ! 

In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida ? 

Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 
Obey you in espousing her ? 

Sieg. As far 

As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She's young — all beautiful — adores you — is 
Endowed with qualities to give happiness. 
Such as rounds common life into a dream 
Of something which your poets cannot paint, 
And ( if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom ; 
And giving so much happiness, deserves 
A little in return. I would not have her 
Break her heart for a man who has none to 

break ; 
Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she thought a nightin- 
gale, 
According to the Orient tale. She is 

Ulr, The daughter of dead Stralenheim, 
your foe. 
I'll wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say truth, 
Just now I am not violently transported 
In favor of such unions. 

Sieg. But she loves you. 

Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would 
think tivice. 

Sieg. Alas ! Love never did so. 

Ulr. Then 'tis time 

He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps: till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 

Sieg. But you consent? 

Ulr. I did, and do. 

Sieg. Then fix the day. 

Ulr. Tis usual, 

And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 

Sieg. I will engage for her. 



Ulr. So will not / 

For any woman ; and as what I fix, 
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
Her answer, I'll give mine. 

Sieg. But 'tis your office 

To woo. 

Ulr. Count, 'tis a marriage of your making. 
So be it of your wooing ; but to please you 
I will now pay my duty to my mother. 
With whom, you know, the lady Ida is. — 
What would you have ? You have forbid my 

stirring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls, 
And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer, 
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting- 
needles, , 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for 

smiles. 
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes of feminine, as though they were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
What can a son or man do more ? 

[Exit Ulric. 
Sieg. (solus). Too much! — 

Too much of duty and too little love ! 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not : 
For such hath been my wayward fate, I could 

not 
Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
Ne'er left him, nor my eyes longed without 

tears 
To see my child again, and now I have found 

him ! 
But how 1 — obedient, but with coldness ; 

duteous 
In my sight, but with carelessness ; mysteri- 
ous — 
Abstracted — distant — much given to long 

absence. 
And where — none know — in league with the 

most riotous 
Of our young nobles ; though, to do him 

justice. 
He never stoops down to their vulgar pleas- 
ures ; 
Yet there's some tie between them which v 

cannot 
Unravel. They look up to him — consult 

him — 
Throng round him as a leader : but with me 
He hath no confidence ! Ah I can I hope it 
After — what! doth my father's curse descend 
Even to my child ? Or is the Hungarian 

near 
To shed more blood? or — Oh! if it should 

be! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these 

walls 
To wither him and his — who, though they 
slew not, 



752 



WERNER. 



[act IV. 



Unlatched the door of death for thee ? 'Twas 

not 
Our fault, nor is our sin : thou wert our foe, 
And yet I spared thee when my own destruction 
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awak- 
ening! 
And only took — Accursed gold! thou liest 
Like poison in my hands; I dare not use 

thee, 
Nor part from thee ; thou earnest in such a 

guise, 
Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for 

thee, 
Thou villanous gold! and thy dead master's 

doom, 
Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherished her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an ATTENDANT. 

Atten. The abbot, if it please 

Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon you. \Exit ATTENDANT. 

Enter the PRIOR ALBERT. 

Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
Within them 1 

Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father! 

And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men have 

need 
Of such, and I 

Prior. Have the first claim to all 

The prayers of our community. Our convent. 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

Sieg. Yes, good father ; 

Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood. 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

Prior. To the endless home of unbelievers. 
Where there is everlasting wail and woe. 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and 

fire 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not! 

Sieg. True, father: and to avert those 
pangs from one. 
Who, though of our most faultless holy church. 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices. 
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial 

pains, 
I have to offer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

[SlEGENDORF offers the gold which he had 
taken frojn Str ALEN H EI M. 

Prior. Count, if I 

Receive it, 'tis because I know too well 
Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 



Our house needs no donations, thanks to 

yours, 
Which has of old endowed it ; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said ? 
Sieg. {faltering). For — for — the dead. 
Prior. His name ? 

Sieg. 'Tis from a soul, and not a name 

I would avert perdition. 

Prior. I meant not 

To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for th'? 
proudest. 
Sieg. Secret ! I have none ; but, father, h. 
who's gone 
Might have one ; or, in short, he did be- 
queathe — 
No, not bequeathe — but I bestow this sum 
For pious purposes. 

Prior. A proper deed 

In the behalf of our departed friends. 
Sieg. But he who's gone was not my friend, 
but foe, 
The deadliest and the stanchest. 

Prior. Better still ! 

To employ our means to obtain heaven for 

the souls 
Of our dead enemies is worthy those 
Who can forgive them living. 

Sieg. But I did not 

Forgive this man, I loathed him to the last, 
As he did me. I do not love him now. 

But 

Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion ! 
You fain would rescue him you hate from 

hell — 
An evangelical compassion — with 
Your own gold too ! 

Sieg. Father, 'tis not my gold. 

Prior. Whose then ? You said it was no 

legacy. 
Sieg. No matter whose — of this be sure, 
that he 
Who owned it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars : 
'Tis yours, or theirs. 
Prior. Is there no blood upon it ? 

Sieg. No ; but there's worse than blood — • 

eternal shame ! 
Prior. Did he who owned it die in his 

bed? 
Sieg. Alas ! 
He did. 

Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge, 
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 
Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep in 

blood. 
Prior. You said he died in bed, not battle. 
Sieg. He 

Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabbed 

i' the dark. 
And now you have it — perished on his pillow 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



753 



By a cut-throat ! — Ay ! — you may look upon 
me! 

/am not the man. I'll meet your eye on that 
point, 

As I can one day God's. 

Prior. Nor did he die 

By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 
Sieg. No ! by the God who sees and 

strikes ! 
Prior. Nor know you 

Who slew him ? 

Sieg. I could only guess at one, 

And he to me a stranger, unconnected, 

As unemployed. Except by one day's knowl- 
edge, 

I never saw the man who was suspected. 
Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 
Sieg. {eagerly). Oh! am \1 — say. 

Prior. You have said so, and know best. 
Sieg. Father ! I have spoken 

The truth, and nought but truth, if not the 
whole : 

Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 

Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it, 

Though, by the Power who abhorreth hu- 
man blood, 

I did not 1 — nay, once spared it, when 
I might 

And could — ay, perhaps, should (if our self- 
safety 

Be e'er excusable in such defences 

Against the attacks of over-potent foes) : 

But pray for him, for me, and all my 
house ; 

For, as I said, though I be innocent, 

I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 

As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for 
me. 

Father! I have prayed myself in vain. 

Prior. I will. 

Be comforted! You are innocent, and 
should 

Be calm as innocence. 

Sieg. But calmness is not 

Always the attribute of innocence. 

I feel it is not. 

Prior. But it will be so. 

When the mind gathers up its truth within 
it. 

Remember the great festival to-morrow. 

In which you rank amidst our chiefest no- 
bles. 

As well as your brave son ; and smooth your 
aspect, 

Nor in the general orison of thanks 

For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not 
rise, 

A cloud upon your thoughts. This were 
to be 

Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 

Such things, and leave remorse unto the 
guilty. \Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — A large and magnificent Gothic 
Hall in the Castle of Siegendorfi decorated 
luith Trophies, /banners, and Arms of that 
Family. 

Enter ArNHEIM and MeisTER, attendants of 
Count Sjegendorf. 

Am. Be quick ! the count will soon return : 
the ladies 
Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
I'he messengers in search of him he seeks 
for? 

Meis. I have, in all directions, over 
Prague, 
As fur as the man's dress and figure could 
By your desci iption track him. The devil take 
These revels and processions ! All the pleasure 
(If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
I'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 

Arn. Go to ! my lady countess comes. 

Meis. I'd rather 

Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade. 
Than follow in the train of a great man 
In these dull pageantries. 

Arn. Begone ! and rail 

Within. [Exeunt. 

Enter the CoUNTESS JOSEPHINE SlEGEN- 
DORF and IDA STRALENHEIM. 

Jos. Well, Heaven be praised, the show is 

over. 
Ida. How can you say so ! never have I 
dreamt 
Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the 

boughs. 
The banners, and the nobles, and the knights, 
The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy 

faces. 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
Streaming through the stained windows, even 

the tombs, 
Which looked so calm, and the celestial 

hymns. 
Which seemed as if they rather came from 

heaven 
Than mounted there. The bursting organ's 

peal 
Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder; 
The white robes and the lifted eyes ; the world 
At peace ! and all at peace with one another! 
Oh, my sweet mother! 

[Embracing JOSEPHINE. 
fos. My beloved child ! 

For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortlv. 

Ida. ' Oh ! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 
Jcs. It does, my love ; and never may it 
throb 
With aught more bitter. 

Ida. Never shall it do so ! 



754 



WERNER. 



[act v. 



How should it? What should make us 

grieve ? I hate 
To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad, 
Who love each other so entirely ? You, 
The count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida. 

fos. Poor child ! 

Ida. Do you pity me? 

Jos. No ; I but envy. 

And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

Ida. I'll not hear 

A word against a world which still contains 
You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
Aught like him ? How he towered amongst 

them all ! 
How all eyes followed him ! The flowers fell 

faster — 
Rained from each lattice at his feet, me- 

thought. 
Than before all the rest ; and where he trod 
I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
Will wither. 

Jos. You will spoil him, little flatterer, 

If he should hear you. 

Ida. But he never will. 

I dare not say so much to him — I fear him. 

Jos. Why so ? he loves you well. 

Ida. But I can never 

Shape my thoughts of him into words to him. 
Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 

Jos. How so ? 

Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes 
suddenly. 
Yet he says nothing, 

Jos. It is nothing : all men, 

Especially in these dark troublous times. 
Have much to think of. 

Ida. But I cannot think 

Of aught save him. 

Jos. Yet there are other men. 

In the world's eye, as goodly. There's, for in- 
stance. 
The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once 

withdrew 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

Ida. I did not see him. 

But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
When all knelt, and I wept ? and yet me- 

thought. 
Through my fast tears, though they were thick 

and warm, 
I saw him smiling on me. 

Jos. I could not 

See aught save heaven, to which my eyes 

were raised 
Together with the people's. 

Ida. I thought too 

Of heaven, although I looked on Ulric. 

Jos. Come, 

Let us retire; they will be here anon 
Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 



Aside these nodding plumes and dragging 

trains. 
Ida. And, above all, these stiff and heavy 

jewels. 
Which make my head and heart ache, aa 

both throb 
Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. ■ 
Dear mother, I am with you. 

Enter COUNT SlEGENDORF, in full dress, 
from the solemnity, attd LUDWIG. , . 

Sieg. Is he not found ? 

Lud. Strict search is making everywhere ; 

and if 

The man be in Prague, be sure he will be 

found. '■ ' 

Sieg. Where's Ulric ? ^^ 

Lud. He rode round the other way 

With some young nobles; but he left them 

soon; 
And, if I err not, not a minute since 
I heard his excellency, with his train. 
Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 

Enter ULRIC, splendidly dressed. 

Sieg. {to LUDWiG). See they cease not 

Their quest of him I have described. 

\Exit LUDWIG. 
Oh, Ulric! ■ •->> 

How have I longed for thee ! 

Ulr. Your wish is granted -^ 

Behold me! 

Sieg. I have seen the murderer. 

Ulr. Whom ? Where ? 

Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Stralen- 
heim. 

Ulr. You dream. 

Sieg. I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 
Heard him I he dared to utter even my name. 

Ulr. What name ? 

Sieg. Werner ! 'twas mine. 

Ulr. It must be so 

No more : forget it. 

Sieg. Never! never! all 

My destinies were woven in that name : 
It will not be engraved upon my tomb. 
But it may lead me there. 

Ulr. To the point — the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Listen ! — The church was thronged ; 
the hymn was raised ; 
" Te Deu7n" pealed from nations, rather than 
From choirs, in one great cry of " God be 

praised " 
For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread 

years, 
Each bloodier than the f .rmer : I arose. 
With all the nobles, and as I looked dowri 
Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
Our bannered and escutcheoned gallery, I 
Saw, like a flash of lightning (for I saw 
A moment and no more), what struck me 
sightless 



SCENE 1.] 



WERNER. 



755 



To all else — the Hungarian's face! I grew 
Sick ; and when I recovered from the mist 
Which curled about my senses, and again 
Looked down, I saw him not. The thanks- 
giving 
Was over, and we marched back in pro- 
cession. 

Ulr. Continue. 

Sieg. When we reached the Muldau's 

bridge, 
The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barks manned with revellers in their best 

garbs, 
Which shot alone the glancing tide below, 
The decorated street, the long array, 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artillery, which seemed to bid 
A long and loud farewell to its great doings. 
The standards o'er me and the tramphngs 

round. 
The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all 

could not 
Chase this man from my mind, although my 

senses 
No longer held him palpable. 

Ulr. You saw him 

No more, then ? 

Sieg. I looked, as a dying soldier 
Looks at a draught of water, for this man : 
But still I saw him not; but in his stead 

Ulr. What in his stead ? 

Sieg. My eye for ever fell 

Upon your dancing crest; the loftiest. 
As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 
Which overflowed the glittering streets of 
Prague. 

Ulr. What's this to the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Much ; for I 

Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word — 
" Werner !" 

Ulr. Uttered by 

Sieg. Him! I turned — and saw — and fell. 

Llr. And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 

Sieg. The officious care 

Of those around me dragged me from the spot, 
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause ; 
You, too. were too remote in the procession 
(The old nobles being divided from their 

children) 
To aid me. 

Ulr. But I'll aid you now. 

Sieg. In what ? 

Ulr. In searching for this man, or 

When he's found. 
What shall we do with him ? 

Sieg. I know not that. 



Ulr. Then wherefore seek ? 

Sieg. Because I cannot rest 

Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
And ours, seem intertwisted! nor can be 
Unravelled, till 

Enter an ATTENDANT. 

Atten. A stranger to wait on 

Your excellency. 

Sieg. Who ? 

Atten. He gave no name. 

Sieg. Admit him, ne'ertheless. 

\flie Attendant introduces Gabor, and 
afterwards exit. 

Ah! 

Gab. 'Tis, then, Werner! 

Sieg. {haughtily). The same you knew, sir, 
by that name ; and you ! 

Gab. {looking rotmd). I recognize you 
both : father and son, 
It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or 

yours, 
Have lately been in search of me : I am here. 

Sieg. I have sought you, and have found 
you : you are charged 
(Your own heart may inform you why) with 

such 
A crime as [^He pauses. 

Gab. Give it utterance, and then 

I'll meet the consequences. 

Sieg. You shall do so — 

Unless 

Gab. First, who accuses me ? 

Sieg. All things, 

If not all men : the universal rumor — 
My own presence on the spot — the place — 

the time — 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gab. And on 7ne only? 

Pause ere you answer : is no other name, 
Save mine, stained in this business ? 

Sieg. Trifling villain ! 

Who play'st with thine own guilt ! Of all 

that breathe 
Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy 

bloody slander. 
But I will talk no further with a wretch. 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once. 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gab. 'Tis false ! 

Sieg. Who savs so ? 

Gab. ' I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it ? 

Gab. By 

The presence of the murderer. 

Sie^. Name him ! 

Gab. He 

May have more names than one. Your lord- 
ship had so 
Once on a time. 



756 



WERMER. 



[act v. 



Sieg. If you mean me, I dare 

Your utmost. 

Gab. You may do so, and in safety ; 

I know the assassin. 

Sieg. Where is he ? 

Gab. {pointing to Ulric). Beside you ! 

[UlriC rushes forward to attack Gabor ; 

SlEGENDORF interposes. 
Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be 
slain ; 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within 
them. [H^ turns to Ulric. 

Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
I could not deem it earth-born : but be 

calm ; 
It will refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavors to compose hifnself. 
Gab. Look at him, count, and then hear me. 
Sieg. (first to Gabor, aud theti looking at 
Ulric). 

I hear thee. 

My God ! you look 

Ulr. How ? 

Sieg. As on that dread night 

When we met in the garden. 

Ulr. {composes himself). It is nothing. 
Gab. Count, you are bound to hear me. I 
came hither 
Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt 

down 
Amidst the people in the church, I dreamed 

not 
To find the beggared Werner in the seat 
Of senators and princes ; but you have called 

me, 
And we have met. 

Sieg. Go on, sir. 

Gab. Ere I do so, 

Allow me to inquire who profited 
By Stralenheim's death ? Was't I — as poor 

as ever ; 
And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 
The baron lost in that last outrage neither 
Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought, — 
A life which stood between the claims of others 
To honors and estatesscarce less than princely. 
Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach 
no less 
To me than to my son. 

Gab. I can't help that. 

But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one amongst us. 
I speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere I can proceed — dare you protect 

me ? 
DAre you command me ? 

[SlEGENDORF/r5/ looks at the Hungarian, 
and then at ULRIC, who has unbuckled 
his sabre, and is drarving lines with it on 
the floor — still in its sheath. 



Ulr. {looks at his father and says). 

Let the man go on ! 
Gab. I am unarmed, count — bid your son 
lay down 
His sabre. 

Ulr. {offers it to him contemptuously). 

Take it. 
Gab. No, sir, 'tis enough 

That we are both unarmed — I would not 

choose 
To wear a steel which may be stained with 

more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

Ulr. {casts the sabre from him in contempt). 

It — or some 

Such other weapon, in my hands — spared 

yours 
Once when disarmed and at my mercy. 

Gab. True — 

I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 
Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 

Ulr. Proceed. 

The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
But is it of my father to hear further ? 

[7b Siegendorf. 
Sieg. {takes his son by the hand) . 
My son, I know my own innocence, and doubt 

not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man pa- 
tience. 
Let him continue. 

Gab. I will not detain you 

By speaking of myself much ; I began 
Life early — and am what the world has made 

me. 
At Frankfort on the Oder, where I passed 
A winter in obscurity, it was 
My chance at several places of resort 
(Which I frequented sometimes but not often) 
To hear related a strange circumstance 
In February last. A martial force. 
Sent by the state, had, after strong resistance. 
Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
Marauders from the hostile camp. — They 

proved. 
However, not to be so — but banditti, 
Whom either accident or enterprise 
Had carried from their usual haunt — the 

forests 
Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
Many amongst them were reported of 
High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers. 
And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 
Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate, 
I know no more. 
Sie^. And what is this to Ulric ? 

Gab. Amongst them there was said to be 
one man 
Of wonderful endowments : — birth and for- 
tune. 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



757 



Youth, strength, and beauty, almost super- 
human. 
And courage as unrivalled, were proclaimed 
His by the public rumor; and his sway, 
Not only over his associates, l>ut 
His judges, was attributed to witchcraft. 
Such was his influence : — I have no great faith 
In any magic save that of the mine — 
I therefore deemed him wealthy. ■ — But my soul 
Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
This prodigy, if only to behold him. 
Sieg. ^nd did you so ? 
Gab. You'll hear. Chance favored me: 
A popular affray in the public square 
Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
Occasions where men's souls look out of 

them, 
And show them as they are — even in their 

faces : 
The moment my eye met his, I exclaimed, 
" This is the man ! " though he was then, as 

since. 
With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
I had not erred, and watched him long and 

nearly. 
I noted down his form — his gesture — fea- 
tures. 
Stature, and bearing — and amidst them all, 
Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiator's heart. 

Ulr. {smilitig) . The tale sounds well. 

Gab. And may sound better. — He ap- 
peared to me 
One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
The fates of others oft depend ; besides. 
An indescribable sensation drew me 
Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
Was to be fixed by him. — There I was wrong. 
Sieg. And may not be right now. 
Gab. I followed him. 

Solicited his notice — and obtained it — 
Though not his friendship : — it was his inten- 
tion 
To leave the city privately — we left it 
Together — and together we arrived 
In the poor town where Werner was con- 
cealed. 

And Stralenheim was succored Now we 

are on 
The verge — dare you hear further ? 

Sieg. I must do so — 

Or I have heard too much. 

Gab. I saw in you 

A man above his station — and if not 
So high, as now I find you, in my then 
Conceptions, 'twas that I had rarely seen 
Men such as you appeared in height of mind 
In the most high of worldly rank ; you were 
Poor, even to all save rags : I would have 
shared 



My purse, though slender, with you — you 
refused it. 
Sieg. Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
That thus you urge it ? 

Gab. Still you owe me something, 

Though not for that ; and I owed you my 

safety. 
At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
I'hat / had robbed him. 

Sieg. /concealed you — I, 

Whom and whose house you arraign, reviving 
viper ! 
Gab. I accuse no man — save in my de- 
fence. 
You, count, have made yourself accuser — 

judge : 
Your hall's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
Be just, and /'U be merciful 1 

Sieg. You merciful ! 

You ! Base calumniator ! 

Gab. I. 'Twill rest 

With me at last to be so. You concealed me — 
In secret passages known to yourself. 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night. 
Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer. 
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light : 
I followed it, and reached a door — a secret 
Portal — which opened to the chamber, where. 
With cautious hand and slow, having first 

undone 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
I looked through and beheld a purple bed. 
And on it Stralenheim I — 

Sieg. Asleep ! And yet 

You slew him ! — Wretch ! 

Gab. He was already slain, 

And bleeding hke a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 

Sieg. But he was all alone ! 

You saw none else ? You did not see the 

\^He pauses from agitation. 
Gab. No, 

He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
The chamber. 

Sieg. {to Ulric). Then, my boy ! thou 
art guiltless still — 
Thou bad'st me say /was so once — Oh ! now 
Do thou as much ! 

Gab. Be patient I I can not 

Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember, — or 
If not, your son does, — that the locks were 

changed 
Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
Which led to this same night : how he had 

entered 
He best knows — but within an antechamber, 
The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
A man v/ho washed his bloody hands, and of< 



758 



WERNER. 



[act V, 



With stern and anxious glance gazed back 

upon 
The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 
Sieg. Oh ! God of fathers ! 
Gab. I beheld his features 

As I see yours — but yours they were not, 

though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count 

Ulric's ! 
Distinct as I beheld them, though the expres- 
sion 
Is not now what it then was ; — but it was so 
When I first charged him with the crime — so 

lately. 

Sieg. This is so 

Gab. {inierruptnig him). Nay — but hear 

me to the end ! 
Now you must do so. — I conceived myself 
Betrayed by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt; and my first thought 
Was vengeance : but though armed with a 

short poniard 
(Having left my swordwithout) I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
I turned, and fled — i' the dark : chance rather 

than 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept : if I 
Had found you waking. Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have 

prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 
Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and 

such brief sleep. 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my 

father — 
And now my dream is out! 

Gab. 'Tis not my fault, 

If I have read it. — Well ! I tied and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And showed me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inliabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
You sought me and have found me — now 

you know 
My secret, and may weigh its worth. 

Sieg. {after a pause). Indeed! 

Gab. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation ? 

.SV^'^. Neither — I v/as weighing 

The value of your secret. 

Gab. You shall know it 

At once: — When you were poor, and I, 

though poor, 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As might have envied mine, I offered you 
My purse — you would not share it: — I'll 

be franker 



With you : you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 

The imperial powers — you understand me? 

Sieg. Yes. 

Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, 

and scarce true : 

'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes 

Have made me both at present. You shall 

aid me : 
I would have aided you — and also have 
Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I 
have said. 
Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few 
minutes' 
Deliberation ? 

Gab. {casts his eyes on Ulric, who is lean- 
ing against a pillar). If I should do so ? 
Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. With- 
draw into 
This tower. [ Opens a turret door. 

Gab. {hesitatitigly). This is the second j-o/^ 
asylum 
You have offered me, 

Sieg. And was not the first so ? 

Gab. I know not that even now — but will 
approve 
The second. I have still a further shield. — 
I did not enter Prague alone ; and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are 
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
Be brief in your decision ! 1 

Sieg. I will be so. — 

My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within thesg walls, but it extends no further. 
Gab. I'll take it for so much. 
Sieg. {points to ULRIC'S sabre still upon 
the ground). Take also Ma/ — 

I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully, 

Gab. {takes up the sabre). I will; and so 
provide 
To sell my life — not cheaply. 

[GaBOR goes into the turret, which SIEGEN- 
DORF closes. 
Sieg. {advances to Ulric). Now, Count 
Ulric ! 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st 
thou? 
Ulr. His tale is true, 
Sieg. True, monster ! 

Ulr. Most true, father ! 

And you did well to listen to it : what 
We know, we can provide against. He must 
Be silenced, 

1 [" Gab. I have yet an additional security — I 
did not enter Prague a solitary individual; and 
there are tongues without that will speak for me, 
although I should even share the fate of Stralen- 
heim. Let your deliberation be short." — " Sieg. 
My promise is solemn, sacred, irrevocable: It ex- 
tends not, however, beyond these walls." — Miss 
Lee.\ 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



759 



Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains ; 

And with the other half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villany. 

Ulr. ' It is no time 

For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story's true ; and he too must be silenced. 

Sieg. How so ? 

Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 
As never to have hit on this before ? 
When we met in the garden, what except 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His death ? Or had the prince's household 

been 
Then summoned, would the cry for the police 
Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 
Have loitered on the way ? Or, could you, 

Werne)-, 
The object of the baron's hate and fears. 
Have fled, unless by many an hour before 
Suspicion woke ? I sought and fathomed you. 
Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
At times your weakness.i 

Sieg. Parricide ! no less 

Than common stabber! What deed of my 

life, 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem 

me fit 
For your accomplice ? 

Ulr. Father, do not raise 

The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
Is time for union and for action, not 
For family disputes. While you were tortured. 



1 [I am ready to allow every fair license to dra- 
matic verse; but still it must have more than the 
bare typographic impress of metre. Ten syllables, 
counted by finger and thumb, will not do. None 
of us imagine — 

Day and Martin 

To prevent fraud, request purchasers to 

Look on the signature on the patent Blacking 

Bottles, etc. — 

to be versification, and the great majority of the 
lines in this tragedy are just as harmonious: — e.g. 
— " Ul. He too must be silenced. — [Ver. How 
so? — Ul. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 
as never to have hit on this before? When we 
met in the garden, what except discovery in the 
act could make me know his death? Or had the 
prince's household been then summoned, would the 
cry for the police been left to such a stranger? [Pretty 
English this last sentence by the by!] Or should 
I have loitered on the way? Or could you, Wer- 
ner, the object of the baron's hate and fears, have 
fled — unless by many an hour before suspicion 
woke? I sought and fathomed you, doubting if 
you were false or feeble : I perceived you were 
the latter; and yet so confiding have I found you, 
that I doubted at times your weakness," etc. etc. 
There are other passages still more prosaic. Why 
they are printed for verse, I cannot for the life of 
me conjecture: they are as plain prose as a turn- 
pike act. — Dr. Maginn.'\ 



Could / be calm ? Think you that I have 

heard 
This fellow's tale without some feeling ? — 

You 
Have taught me feeling iox you and myself; 
For whom or what else did you ever teach it ? 
Sieg. Oh ! my dead fatiier's curse ! 'tis 

working now. 
Ulr. Let it work on I the grave will keep 

it down ! 
Ashes are feeble foes : it is more easy 
To baffle sucii, than countermine a mole, 
Which winds its blind but living path beneath 

you. 
Yet hear me still ! — \iyou condemn me, yet 
Remember who hath taught me once too often 
To listen to him I Who proclaimed to me 
That there were criynes made venial by the 

occasion ? 
That passion was our nature ? that the goods 
Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 
Who showed me his humanity secured 
By his nerves only ? Who deprived me of 
All power to vindicate myself and race 
In open day ? By his disgrace which stamped 
(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
Himself — 3.felo7is brand I The man who is 
At once both warm and weak invites to deeds 
He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 
That I should a^/what you conXd think? We 

have done 
With right and wrong; and now must only 

ponder 
Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
Whose life I saved from impulse, as unknown, 
I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I 

slew 
Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. 

He 
Was a rock in our way which I cut through. 
As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
And our true destination — but not idly. 
As stranger I preserved him, and he oived me 
His life : when due, I but resumed the debt. 
He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 
I have plunged our enemy.2 Vou kindled first 



2 [" C/lr, We stood on a precipice down which 
one of three must inevitably have plunged; for I 
will not deny that I knew my own situation to be 
as critical as yours. I therefore precipitated Stra- 
lenheim! You held the torch! You pointed out 
the path! Show me now that of safety; or let me 
show It you ! — 

Sltg. I have done with life ! 

Ulr. Let us have done with retrospection. We 
have nothing more either to learn or to conceal 
from each other. I have courage and partisans; 
they are even within the walls, though you do not 
know them. Keep your own secret. Preserve an 
unchanged countenance. Without your further 
interference I will forever secure you from the in- 
discretion of a thi?-d person," etc. etc. — Misi 
Lee.\ 



760 



WERNER. 



The torch — you showed the path ; now trace 

me that 
Of safety — or let me ! 

Sieg. I have done with life ! 

Ulr. Let us have done with that which 

cankers life — 
Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
No more to learn or hide: I know no fear, 
And have within these very walls men who 
(Although you know them not) dare venture 

all things. 
You stand high with the state ; what passes here 
Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stirnot, and speak not; — leave the rest to 

me : 
We must have no third babblers thrust be- 
tween us. \_Exit Ulric. 
Sieg. {solus) . Am I awake ? are these my 

father's halls ? 
And you — my son ? My son ! 7nine ! who 

have ever 
Abhorred both mystery and blood, and yet 
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 
I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
The Hungarian's ! — Ulric — he hath partisans, 
It seems: I might have guessed as much. 

Oh fool ! 
Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
(As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
Into the turret. Now then! or once more 
To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
Than of the criminal ! Ho ! Gabor ! Gabor ! 
\Exit into the turret, closing the door after 

him. 

Scene \\.— The Interior of the Turret, 
Gabor and Siegendorf. 

Gab. Who calls ? 

Sieg. I — Siegendorf! Take these, and fly ! 
Lose not a moment ! 

[ Tears off a diamond star and other jewels, 
and thrusts them into Gabor'S hand. 

Gab. What am I to do 

With these? 

Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 
And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost ! 

Gab. You pledged your honor for my safety ! 

Sieg. And 

Must thus redeem it. Fly! I am not master. 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls. 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly ! 
Or you will be slain by 

Gab. Is it even so ? 

Farewell, then! Recollect, however. Count, 
You sought this fatal interview ! 

Sir^. I did : 

Let it not be more fatal still ! : — Begone ! 

Gab. By the same path \ entered ? 



Sieg. Yes ; that's safe still, 

But loiter not in Prague ; — you do not know 
With whom you have to deal. 

Gab. I know too well — 

And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
Farewell ! \E.xit Gabor. 

Sieg. {solus and listening). He hath cleared 
the staircase. Ah ! I hear 
The door sound loud behind him ! He is safe ! 
Safe ! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint 

\_He leans doivn upo7i a stone seat, near the 
wall of the tower, in a drooping posture. 

Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with 
weapons drawn. 

Ulr. Despatch ! — he's there ! 

Lud. The count, my lord ! 

Ulr. {recognizing SIEGENDORF). l^'isa here, 

sir! 
Sieg. Yes: if you want another victim, 

strike ! 
Ulr. {seeing hi77istript of his jt'wels). Where 
is the ruffian who hath plundered you ? 
Vassals, despatch in search of him! You see 
'Twas as I said — the wretch hath stript my 

father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heir- 
loom ! 
Awav ! I'll follow you forthwith. 

[Exeu/it all but SIEGENDORF and ULRIC. 
What's this ? 
Where is the villain ? 

Sieg. There are tiuo, sir : which 

Are you in quest of ? 

Ulr. Let us hear no more 

Of this : he must be found. You have not let 
him escape ? 
Sieg. He's gone. 

Ulr. With your connivance ? 

Sieg. With 

My fullest, freest aid. 

Ulr. Then fare you well ! 

[Ulric is going. 
Sieg. Stop! I command — entreat — im- 
plore! Oh, Ulric! 
Will you then leave me ? 

Ulr. What ! remain to be 

Denounced — dragged, it may be, in chains ; 

and all 
By your inherent weakness, half-humanity. 
Selfish remorse, and temporizing pity. 
That sacrifices your whole race to save 
A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
Henceforth you have no son ! 

Sieg. I never had one ; 

And would you ne'er had borne the useless 

name ! 
Where will you go ? I would not send you 

forth 
Without protection. 

Ulr. Leave that unto me. 

I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 



DON yUAM. 



761 



Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
Swords, hearts, and hands, arc mine. 

Si eg. The foresters ! 

With whom the Hungarian found you first at 

Frankfort ! 
Ulr. Yes — men — who are worthy of the 

name ! Go tell 
Your senators that they look well to Prague ; 
Their feast of peace was early for the times ; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been 

laid 
With Wallenstein ! 

Enter JOSEPHINE and IDA. 

jfos. What is't we hear ? My Siegendorf, 
Thank Heaven, I see you safe ! 

Sieg. Safe ! 

Ida. Yes, dear father! 

Sieg. No, no; I have no children: never 
more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 

Jos. What 

Means my good lord ! 



Sieg. That you have given birth 

To a demon ! 

Ida. {taking Ulric'S hand). Who shall 

dare say this of Ulric ? 
Sieg. Ida, beware! there's blood upon that 

hand. 
Ida. {stooping to kiss it). I'd kiss it off, 

though it were mine. 
Sieg. It is so ! 

Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! 

{Exit Ulric. 

Ida. Oh, great God ! 

And I have loved this man ! 

[Ida falls senseless — JOSEPHINE stands 

speechless with horror. 
Sieg. The wretch hath slain 

Them both ! — My Josephine ! we are now 

alone ! 
Would we had ever been so ! — All is over 
For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy 

grave ; 
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
In mine ! — The race of Siegendorf is past. 



DON JUAN. 



FRAGMENT 

On the back of the Poet's MS. of Canto I. 

I WOULD to heaven that I were so much clay, 
As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, 
feeling — 
Because at least the past were passed away — 
And for the future — (but I write this reel- 
ing. 
Having got drunk exceedingly to-day. 

So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) 
I say — the future is a serious matter — 
\nd so — for God's sake — hock and soda- 
water ! 



DEDICATION. 

I. 

Bob Southey ! You're a Poet — Poet- 
laureate, 
And representative of all the race, 
Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at 



Last, — yours has lately been a common 
case, — 
And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at ? 

With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ; 

II. 

" Which pye being opened they began to sing" 
(This old song and new simile holds good) , 

" A dainty dish to ?et before the King," 

Or Regent, who admires such kind of 
food ; — 

And Coleridge, too, has 'ately taken wing, 
But like a hawk encumbered with his 
hood, — 

Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 

I wish he would explain his Explanation. 



You, Bob ! are rather insolent, you know, 
At being disappointed in your wish 

To supersede all warblers here below, 
And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 



762 



DOM yUAN. 



And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 

And tumble downward like the flying fish 
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, 

Bob, 
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry. Bob ! 

IV. 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Excur- 
sion " 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred 
pages). 
Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system to perplex the sages ; 
'Tis poetry — at least by his assertion. 
And may appear so when the dog-star 
rages — 
And he who understands it would be able 
To add a story to the Tower of Babel, 

V. 

You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclusion 
From better company, have kept your own 

At Keswick, and, through still continued 
fusion 
Of one another's minds, at last have grown 

To deem as a most logical conclusion, 
That Poesy has wreaths for you alone : 

There is a narrowness in such a notion. 

Which makes me wish you'd change your 
lakes for ocean. 

VI. 
I would not imitate the petty thought. 

Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 
For all the glory your conversion brought, 
Since gold alone should not have been its 
price. 
You have your salary; was't for that you 
wrought ? 
And Wordsworth has his place in the Ex- 
cise. 
You're shabby fellows — true — but poets still. 
And duly seated on the immortal hill. 

VII. 

Your bays may hide the boldness of your 
brows — 
Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let them 
go — 
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 

And for the fame you would engross below, 
The field is universal, and allows 

Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow : 
Scotf, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, 

will try 
'Gainst you the question with posterity. 



^or me, who, wandering with pedestrian 
Muses, 
Contend not with you on the winged steeti- 



I wish your fate may yield ye, when she 
chooses. 

The fame you envy, and the skill you need ; 
And recollect a poet nothing loses 

In giving to his brethren their full meed 
Of merit, and complaint of present days 
Is not the certain path to future praise. 

IX. 
He that reserves his laurels for posterity 
(Who does not often claim the bright re- 
version) 
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
Being only injured by his own assertion ; 
And although here and there some glorious 
rarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 
The major part of such appellants go 
To — God knows where — for no one else can 
know. 

X. 
If fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 

Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time, 
If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, 
And makes the word " Miltonic " mean 
" sublime," 
He deigned not to belie his soul in songs, 

Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

XI. 

Think'st thou, could he— the blind Old 
Man — arise 
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once 
more 
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies. 

Or be alive again — again all hoar 
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 
And heartless daughters — worn — and pale 
— and poor; 
Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ? 

XII. 
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced,placid miscreant ! 

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's 
gore, 
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 

Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore, 
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want, 

With just enough of talent, and no more. 
To lengthen fetters by another fixed, 
And offer poison long already mixed. 

XIII. 

An orator of such set trash of phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately vile. 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, 

Nor foes — all nations — condescend to 
smile, — 



DON JUAN. 



763 



Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, 
That turns and turns to give the world a notion 
Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 



A bungler even in its disgusting trade, 

And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Something of which its masters are afraid, 
States to be curbed, and thoughts to be 
confined, 

Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old 
chains, 

With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 

XV. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind. 

Emasculated to the marrow // 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind. 

Deeming the chain it wears even men may 
fit, 
Eutropius of its many masters, — blind 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit. 
Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice, 
Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 



XVI. 
Where shall I turn me not to view its 
bonds, 
For I will never /^^/ them ; — Italy ! 
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 
Beneath the lie t"his State-thing breathed 
o'er thee — 
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green 
wounds, 
Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for 
me. 
Europe has slaves — allies — kings — armies 

still, 
And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 

XVII. 

Meantime — Sir Laureate — I proceed to 
dedicate. 
In honest simple verse, this song to you. 
And, if in flattering strains I do not predi- 
cate, 
'Tis that I still retain my " buff and blue ; " 
My politics as yet are all to educate : 

Apostasy's so fashionable, too. 
To keep one creed's a task grown quite Her- 
culean ; 
Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian ? 
Venice, September i6, 1818. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



I. 

I WANT a hero : an uncommon want, 

When every year and month sends forth a 
new one, 

Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant. 
The age discovers he is not the true one ; 

Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don 
Juan — 

We all have seen him, in the pantomime, 

Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 

II. 
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, 
Hawke, 
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Kep- 
pel, Howe, 
Evil and good have had their tithe of talk. 
And filled their sign-posts then, like Welles- 
ley now. 
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs 
stalk. 
Followers of fame, " nine farrow " of that 
sow: 
France, too, had Buonapart6 and Du- 

mourier 
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier, 



III. 

Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 

Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 

Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, 
Moreau, 
With many of the military set. 

Exceedingly remarkable at times, 

But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 



Nelson was once Britannia's god of war. 
And still should be so, but the tide is turned : 

There's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
'Tis with our hero quietly inurned ; 

Because the army's grown more popular. 
At which the naval people are concerned ; 

Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, 

Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. 

V. 
Brave men were living before Agamemnon 
And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
A good deal like him too, though quite th« 
same none; 
But then they shone not on the poet's pag<v 



764 



DON JUAN. 



And so have been forgotten : — I condemn 
none, 
But can't find any in the present age 
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one) ; 
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. 

VI. 

Most epic poets plunge " in medias res" 
(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike 
road), 

And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
What went before — by way of episode, 

While seated after dinner at his ease, 
Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 

Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern. 

Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 

VII. 

That is the usual metliod, but not mine — 
My way is to begin with the beginning; 

The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sin- 
ning. 

And therefore I shall open with a line 

(Although it cost me half an hour in spin- 
ning) 

Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 

And also of his mother, if you'd rather. 



In Seville was he born, a pleasant city. 
Famous for oranges and women — he 

Who has not seen it will be much to pity. 
So says the proverb — and I quite agree ; 

Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may 
see : — 

Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 

A noble stream, and called the Guadalquivir. 



His father's name was J6se — Don, of course, 
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 

Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of 
Spain ; 

A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse. 
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 

Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 

Begot — but that's to come Well, to re- 
new: 

X. 

His mother was a learned lady, famed 

For every branch of every science known — 

In every Christian language ever named. 
With virtues equalled by her wit alone 

She made the cleverest people quite ashamed. 
And even the good with inward envy groan, 

Finding themselves so very much exceeded 

In their own way by all the things that she did. 



Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 

So that if any actor missed his part 

She could have served him for the promp- 
ter's copy ; 

For her Feinagle's were an useless art, 
And he himself obliged to shut up shop — he 

Could never make a memory so fine as 

That which adorned the brain of Donna Inez. 

XII. 
Her favorite science was the mathematical, 
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity. 
Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was At- 
tic all. 
Her serious sayings darkened to sublimity ; 
In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity. 
Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin. 
And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puz- 
zHng. 

XIII. 

She knew the Latin — that is, "the Lord's 
prayer," 
And Greek — the alphabet — I'm nearly 
sure ; 
She read some French romances here and 
there, 
Although her mode of speaking was not 
pure ; 
For native Spanish she had no great care. 

At least her conversation was obscure ; 
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a 

problem. 
As if she deemed that mystery would ennoble 
'em. 

XIV. 

She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 

And said there was analogy between 'em ; 
She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 
But I must leave the proofs to those who've 
seen 'err). 
But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong. 
And all may think which way their judg- 
ments lean 'em, 
" 'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which 

means ' I am,' 
The English always used to govern d — n." 

XV. 

Some women use their tongues — she looked 
a. lecture. 

Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily. 
An all-in-all-sufificient self-director. 

Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly, 
The Law's expounder, and the State's correc- 
tor. 

Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 
One sad example more, that " All is vanity," — 
(The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity.") 



DON JUAN. 



765 



XVI. 

In short, she was a walking calculation, 
Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their 
covers, 

Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education. 
Or " Coilebs' Wife " set out in quest of 
lovers. 

Morality's prim personification. 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers; 

To others' siiare let " female errors fall," 

For she had not even one — the worst of all. 

XVII. 
Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 

Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 
So far above the cunning powers of hell, 
Her guardian angel had given up his. gar- 
rison ; 
Even her minutest motions went as well 
As those of the best time-piece made by 
Harrison : 
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 
Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar! 



Perfect she was, but as perfection is 

Insipid in this naughty world of ours. 
Where our first parents never learned to kiss 
Till they were exiled from their earlier 
bowers. 
Where all was peace, and innocence, and 
bliss 
(I wonder how they got through the twelve 
hours) 
Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 



He was a mortal of the careless kind. 

With no great love for learning, or the 
learned. 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind. 
And never dreamed his lady was concerned ; 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturned, 

Whispered he had a mistress, some said two. 

But for domestic quarrels one will do. 

XX. 
Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 

A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 
Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it. 

And such,indeed, she was in her moralities ; 
But then she had a devil of a spirit. 

And sometimes mixed up fancies with real- 
ities. 
And let few opportunities escape 
Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 

XXI. 

This was an easy matter with a man 
Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 



And even the wisest, do the best they can. 
Have moments, hours, and days, so unpre- 
pared, 
That you might " brain them with their lady's 
fan ; " 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 
And fans turn into falchions in fair hands. 
And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 
'Tis pity learned virgins ever wed 

With persons of no sort of education. 
Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred, 

Grow tired of scientific conversation: 
I don't choose to say much upon this head, 

I'm a plain man, and in a single station. 
But — Oh 1 ye lords of ladies intellectual, 
Inform us truly, have they not hen-pecked 
you all ? 

XXIII. 
Don Jose and his lady quarrelled — why. 

Not any of the many could divine. 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine ; 
I loathe that low vice — curiosity; 

But if there's any thing in which I shine, 
'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs. 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 
And so I interfered, and with the best 

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 
I think the foolish people were possessed. 

For neither of them could I ever find. 
Although thfeir porter afterwards confessed — 

But that's no matter, and the woi st's behind. 
For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 
A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing. 

And mischief-making monkey from his 
birth ; 
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 

Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 
Instead of quarrelling, had they been but 
both in 
Their senses, they'd have sent young mas- 
ter forth 
To school, or had him soundly whipped at 

home. 
To teach him manners for the time to come. 

XXVI. 
Don- y6se and the Donna Inez led 

For some time an unhappy sort of life, 
Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 

They lived respectably as man and wife. 
Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 

And gave no outward signs of inward strife 
Until at length the smothered fire broke out. 
And put the business past all kind of doubt. 



766 



DON yVAN. 



For Inez called some druggists and physicians, 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad. 

But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
She next decided he was only bad ; 

Yet when they asked her for her depositions, 
No sort of explanation could be had. 

Save that her duty both to man and God 

Required this conduct — which seemed very 
odd. 

XXVIII. 

She kept ajournal, where his faults were noted, 
And opened certain trunks of books and 
letters, 
All which might, if occasion served, be 
quoted ; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors, 
Besides her good old grandmother (who 
doted) ; 
The hearers of her case became repeaters. 
Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges. 
Some for amusement, others for old- grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best and meekest woman bore 
With such serenity her husband's woes, 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 

Who saw their spouses killed, and nobly 
chose 

Never to say a word about them more — 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 

And saw his agonies with such sublimity. 

That all the world exclaimed, " What magna- 
nimity ! " 

XXX. 

No doubt this patience, when the world is 
damning us, 
Is philosophic in our former friends; 
'Tis also pleasant to be deemed magnani- 
mous. 
The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
And what the lawyers call a " tnalus animus " 
Conduct like this by no means compre- 
hends : 
Revenge in person's certainly no virtue. 
But then 'tis not my fault, if others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, 
And help them with a lie or two additional, 
I'm not to blame, as you well know — no 
more is 
Any one else — they were become tradi- 
tional ; 
Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 
By contrast, which is what we just were 
wishing all : 
And science profits by this resurrection — 
Dead scandals form good subjects for dis- 
section. 



XXXII. 

Their friends had tried at reconciliation. 
Then their relations, who made matters 
worse, 

('Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 
To whom it may be best to have recourse — 

I can't say much for friend or yet relation) : 
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 

But scarce a fee was paid on either side 

Before, unluckily, Don J6se died. 



He died : and most unluckily, because. 
According to all hints I could collect 

From counsel learned in those kinds of laws, 
(Although their talk's obscure and circum- 
spect) 

His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ; 
A thousand pities also with respect 

To public feeling, which on this occasion 

Was manifested in a great sensation. 



But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
The public feeling and the lawyers' fees : 

His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 

A priest the other — at least so they say : 
I asked the doctors after his disease — 

He died of the slow fever called the tertian, 

And left his widow to her own aversion. 



Yet J6se was an honorable man, 

That I must say, who knew him very well ; 
Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan, 

Indeed there were not many more to tell: 
And if his passions now and then outran 
Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
As Numa's (who was also named Pom- 

piHus), 
He had been ill brought up, and was born 
bilious. 

XXXVI. 
Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
Poor fellow! he had many things to wound 
him. 
Let's own — since it can do no good on 
earth — 
It was a trying moment that which found him 
Standing alone beside his desolate hearth. 
Where all his household gods lay shivered 
round him. 
No choice was left his feelings or his pride. 
Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he 
died. 

XXXVII. 
Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 
To a chancery suit, and messuages, and 
lands, 



DON yUAN. 



Idl 



Which, with a long minority and care, 

Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 

Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, 
And answered but to nature's just demands ; 

An only son left with an only mother 

Is brought up much more wisely than another. 



Sagest of women, even of widows, she 

Resolved that Juan should be quite a 
paragon. 
And worthy of the noblest pedigree: 

(His sire was of Castile, his dam from 
Aragon.) 
Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 

In case our lord the king should go to war 
again, 
He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gun- 
nery, 
And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But that which Donna Inez most desired, 
And saw into herself each day before all 

The learned tutors whom for him she hired. 
Was, that his breeding should be strictly 
moral : 

Much into all his studies she inquired, 
And so they were submitted first to her, all. 

Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 

To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 

XL. 

The languages, especially the dead. 

The sciences, and most of all the abstruse. 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use, 

In all these he was much and deeply read; 
But not a page of anything that's loose, 

Or hints continuation of the species. 

Was ever suffered, lest he should grow vicious. 

XLI. 

His classic studies made a little puzzle, 
Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 

Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle. 
But never put on pantaloons or bodices ; 

His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, 
And for their ^neids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 

Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 

For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology. 

XLII. 

Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, 
Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, 

Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, 

I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example. 

Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
Where the sublime soars forth on wings 
more ample ; 



But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid 

one 
Beginning with " Formosum Pastor Corydon." 

XLIII. 
Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome 
food ; 
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 

Although no doubt his real intent was good. 
For speaking out so plainly in his song. 

So much indeed as to be downright lude ; 
And then what proper person can be partial 
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 

XLIV. 

Juan was taught from out the best edition, 
Expurgated by learned men, who place. 

Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 
The grosser parts ; but fearful to deface 

Too much their modest bard by this omission, 
And pitying sore his mutilated case, 

They only add them all in an appendix. 

Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index: 



For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
Instead of being scattered through the 
pages ; 

They stand forth marshalled in a handsome 
troop. 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 

To call them back into their separate cages, 

Instead of standing staring altogether, 

Like garden gods — and not so decent either. 

XLVI. 
The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 

Was ornamented in a sort of way 
Which ancient mass-books often are, and this 
all 
Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how 
they. 
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all. 
Could turn their optics to the text and pray. 
Is more than I know — but Don Juan's mother 
Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 

XLVir. 
Sermons he read, and lectures he endured. 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 
To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 

He did not take such studies for restraints ; 
But how faith is acquired, and then insured, 

So well not one of the aforesaid paints 
As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, 
Which makes the reader envy his transgres- 
sions. 

XLVIII. 

This, too, was a sealed book to little Juan — 

I can't but say that his mamma was right, 



768 



DON yUAN. 



If such an education was the true one. 
She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 

Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright, 

She did this during even her husband's life — 

I recommend as much to every wife. 

XLIX. 

Young Juan waxed in goodliness and grace ; 

At six a charming child, and at eleven 
With all the promise of as fine a face 

As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 
He studied steadily, and grew apace, 

And seemed, at least, in the right road to 
heaven. 
For half his days were passed at church, the 

other 
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 

L. 

At six, I said, he was a charming child, 
At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 

Although in infancy a little wild. 

They tamed him down amongst them : to 
destroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toiled. 
At least it seemed so ; and his mother's joy 

Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 

LI. 
I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still. 

But what I say is neither here nor there : 
I knew his father well, and have some skill 

In character — but it would not be fair 
From sire to son to augur good or ill : 

He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair, 
But scandal's my aversion — I protest 
Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 

LIT, 
For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 

This I will say — my reasons are my own — 
That if I had an only son to put 
To school (as God be praised that I have 
none), 
'Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut 
Him up to learn his catechism alone, 
No — no — I'd send him out betimes to col- 
lege. 
For there it was I picked up my own knowl- 
edge. 

LIII. 
For there one learns — 'tis not for me to boast. 
Though I acquired — but I pass over that, 
As well as all the Greek I since have lost : 
I say that there's the place — but " Verbum 
sat;' 
I think I picked up too, as well as most, 
Knowledge of matters — but no matter 
what — 



I I never married — but, I think, I know 
i That sons should not be educated so. 

LTV. 

Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, 
Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he 
seemed 

Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 
And every body but his mother deemed 

Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage 
And bit her hps (for else she might have 
screamed) 

If any said so, for to be precocious 

Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

LV. 

Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
Selected for discretion and devotion. 

There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 

Of many charms in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 

Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid, 

(But this last simile is trite and stupid). 

LVI. 
The darkness of her Oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 
In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin). 
When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, 

Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stayed in Spain, 
Her great great grandmamma chose to re- 
main. 

LVII. 

She married (I forget the pedigree) 

With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 
His blood less noble than such blood should 
be; 
At such alliances his sires would frown, 
In that point so precise in each degree 
That they bred in and in, as might be 
shown. 
Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts, and 

nieces, 
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LVI II. 
This heathenish cross restored the breed 
again. 
Ruined its blood, but much improved its 
flesh; 
For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain 

Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 
The sons no more were short, the daughters 
plain; 
But there's a rumor which I fain would hush, 
'Tis said that Donna Julfa's grandmamma 
Produced her Don more heirs at love than 
law. 



DON JUAN. 



769 



LIX. 

However this might be, the race went on 
Improving still through every generation, 

Until it centred in an only son, 
Who left an only daughter ; my narration 

iviay have suggested that this single one 
Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion 

] shall have much to speak about), and she 

■^'as married, charming, chaste, and twenty- 
three. 

LX. 

Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
Was large and dark, suppressing half its 
fire 
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
Flashed an expression more of pride than 
ire, 
And love.than either ; and there would arise 
A something in them which was not desire, 
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
Which struggled through and chastened down 
the whole. 

LXI. 

Her glossy hair was clustered o'er a brow 
Bright with intelligence, and fair, and 
smooth ; 

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth. 

Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow. 
As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, 

Possessed an air and grace by no means 
common : 

Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 

DXII. 

Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 

And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE 
'Twere better to have TWO of five-and- 
twenty. 

Especially in countries near the sun : 
And now I think on't, " mi vien in mente," 

Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of 
thirty. 

LXIII. 

Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say. 
And all the fault of that indecent sun, 

Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, 

That howsoever people fast and pray. 

The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery. 

Is much more common where the climate's 
sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy the nations of the moral North ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin, without a rag -on, shivering forth 



('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to 
reason) ; 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth. 
By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they 
please on 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
Because it is a marketable vice. 



Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking for his years, and who 

Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorred ■ 
They lived together, as most people do, 

Suffering each other's foibles by accord. 
And not exactly either one or two ; 

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it. 

For jealousy dis.Hkes the world to know it. 



Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
With Donna Inez quite a favorite friend; 

Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 
For not a line had Julia ever penned : 

Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie. 
For malice still imputes some private end) 

That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 

Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 



And that still keeping up the old connection. 
Which time had lately rendered much more 
chaste, 
She took his lady also in affection. 
And certainly this course was much the 
best: 
She flattered Julia with her sage protection, 

And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 
And if she could not (who can ?) silence 

scandal, 
At least she left it a more slender handle. 

LXVIII. 

I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
With other people's eyes, or if her own 

Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown ; 

Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 
Indifferent from the first, or callous grown : 

I'm really puzzled what to think or say. 

She kept her counsel in so close a way. 

LXIX. 

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child. 

Caressed him often — such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled. 
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 

But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three ; 

These few short years make wondrous altera- 
tions 

Particularly amongst sun -burnt nations. 



770 



DON JUAN, 



LXX. 

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
Changed; for the dame grew distant, the 
youth shy, 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost 
dumb, 
And much embarrassment in either eye ; 

There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

LXXI. 
Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind. 

And tremulously gentle her small hand 
Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 

A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 

'Twas but a doubt; but ne'er magician's 
wand 
Wrought change with all Arm Ida's fairy art 
Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

LXXII. 
And if she met him, though she smiled no 
more. 
She looked a sadness sweeter than her smile. 
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 
She must not own, but cherished more the 
while 
For that compression in its burning core ; 
Even innocence itself has many a wile. 
And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 

Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 
Its workings through the vainly guarded 
eye. 

And in whatever aspect it arrays 
Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy; 

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate. 

Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

LXXIV. 

Then there were sighs, the deeper for sup- 
pression. 
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft. 
And burning blushes, though for no trans- 
gression. 
Tremblings when met, and restlessness 
when left. 
All these are little preludes to possession, 

Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 
And merely tend to show how greatly love is 
Embarrassed at first starting with a novice. 

LXXV. 

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state ; 
She ftlt it going, and resolved to make 



The noblest efforts for herself and mate. 
For honor's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake 

Her resolutions were most truly great, 
And almost might have made a Tarquir 
quake : 

She prayed the Virgin Mary for her grace, 

As being the best judge of a lady's case. 

LXXVI. 

She vowed she never would see Juan more. 
And next day paid a visit to his mother, 

And looked extremely at the opening door. 
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ■ 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

*Tis surely Juan now — No I Fm afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further prayed. 

LXXVII. 

She now determined that a virtuous woman 
Should rather face and overcome tempta- 
tion. 
That flight was base and dastardly, and no 
man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensa- 
tion; 
That is to say, a thought beyond the common 
Preference, that we must feel upon occasion, 
For people who are pleasanter than others. 
But then they only seem so many brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 
The devil's so very sly — she should dis- 
cover 
That all within was not so very well. 

And, if still free, that %uch or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can 
quell 
Such thoughts, and be the better when 
they're over ; 
And if the man should ask, 'tis but denial : 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love divine. 
Bright and immaculate, unmixed and pure. 

Such as the angels think so very fine. 
And matrons, who would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine : " 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be 
sure ; 

And so Fd have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

Such love is innocent, and may exist 

Between young persons without any danger. 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kist ; 
For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger, 

But hear these freedoms form the utmost 
list 



DON JUAN. 



771 



Of all o'er which such love may be a 
ranger : 
If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime, 
But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 

LXXXI. 

Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 
Was Julia's innocent determination 

In young Don Juan's favor, and to him its 
Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 

And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 
Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion 

He might be taught, by love and her to- 
gether — 

I really don't know what, nor Julia either. 

LXXXII. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well 
fenced 
In mail of proof — her purity of soul. 
She, for the future of her strength convinced, 

And that her honor was a rock, or mole. 
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 

With any kind of troublesome control ; 
But whether Julia to the task was equal 
Is that which must be mentioned in the 
sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deemed both innocent and feas- 
ible, 
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's 
seizable. 
Or if they did so, satisfied to mean 
Nothing but what was good, her breast was 
peaceable — 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene! 
Christians have burnt each other, quite per- 
suaded 
»That all the Apostles would have done as they 
did. 

LXXXIV. 

And if in the mean time her husband died, 
But Heaven forbid that such a thouglit 
should cross 
Her brain, though in a dream ! (and then she 
sighed) 
Never could she survive that common loss ; 
But just suppose that moment should betide, 

I only say suppose it — inter nos. 
(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought 
In French, but then the rhyme would go for 
nought.) 

LXXXV. 

I only say suppose this supposition : 
Juan being then grown up to man's estate 

Would fully suit a widow of condition. 

Even seven years hence it would not be too 
late; 

And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
The mischief, after all, could not be great, 



For he would learn the rudiments of love, 
I mean the seraph way of those above. 

LXXXVI. 

So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan, 
Poor little tellow ! he had no idea 

Of his own case, and never hit the true one ; 
In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 

He puzzled over what he found a new one. 
But not as yet imagined it could be a 

Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming. 

Which, with a little patience, might grow 
charming. 

LXXXVII. 

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow. 
His home deserted for the lonely wood. 

Tormented with a wound he could not know, 
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude : 

I'm fond myself of solitude or so. 
But then, I beg it may be understood. 

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 

A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 

LXXXVIII. 
" Oh Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 

Where transport and security entwine. 
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss. 

And here thou art a god indeed divine." 
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 

With the exception of the second line. 
For thatsame twining " transport and security " 
Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind. 

The very thing which everybody feels. 
As all have found on trial, or may find. 

That no one likes to be disturbed at meals 
Or love. — I won't say more about " en- 
twined " 

Or " transport," as we knew all that before. 

But beg " Security" will bolt the door. 



Young Juan wandered by the glassy brooks 

Thinking unutterable things ; he threw 
Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
Where the wild branch of the cork forest 
grew ; 
There poets find materials for their books, 
And every now and then we read them 
through, 
So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintel- 
ligible. 

XCI. 
He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth) so pursued 
His self-communion with his own high soul, 
Until his mighty heart, in its great mood. 
Had mitigated part, though not the whole 



772 



DON JUAN. 



Of its disease ; he did the best he could 

With things not very subject to control, 
And turned, without perceiving his condition, 
Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 

XCII. 

He thought abouthimself, and the whole earth. 
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 

And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 
And .then he thought of earthquakes, and 
of wars, 

How many miles the moon might have in 
girth, 
Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 

Toperfect knowledge of theboundless skies ; — 

And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

XCIII. 
In thoughts like these true wisdom may dis- 
cern 
Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 
Which some are born with, but the most part 
learn 
To plague themselves withal, they know not 
why : 
'Twas strange that one so young should thus 
concern 
His brain about the action of the sky; 
\iyou think 'twas philosophy that this did, 
I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 

XCIV. 
He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers. 
And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal 
bowers. 
And how the goddesses came down to men : 
He missed the pathway, he forgot the hours. 
And when he looked upon his watch again. 
He found how much old Time had been a 

winner — 
He also found that he had lost his dinner. 

xcv. 
Sometimes he turned to gaze upon his book, 

Boscan, or Garcilasso ; — by the wind 
Even as the page is rustled while we look, 

So by the poesy of his own mind 
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 

As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind 
Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 
According to some good old woman's tale. 

XCVI. 
Thus would he while his lonely hours away 

Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted ; 
Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, 
A bosom whereon he his head might lay. 
And hear the heart beat with the love it 
granted, 



With several other things, which I forget, 

Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 



Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries, 
Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 

She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 

But that which chiefly may, and must sur- 
prise, 

Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
Her only son with question or surmise ; 

Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 

Or, like all very clever people, could not. 

XCVIII. 

This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very com- 
mon; 
For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman. 

And break the Which commandment 

is't they break ? 

(I have forgot the number, and think no man 

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 

I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, 

They make some blunder, which their ladies 

tell us. 

XCIX. 

A real husband always is suspicious. 

But still no less suspects in the wrong place. 

Jealous of some one who had no such wishes. 
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 

By harboring some dear friend extremely 
vicious ; 
The last indeed's infallibly the case : 

And when the spouse and friend are gone off 
wholly, 

He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 



Thus parents also are at times short-sighted ; 

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er dis- 
cover. 
The while the wicked world beholds delighted. 

Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's 
lover. 
Till some confounded escapade has blighted 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

CI. 

But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think, on this occa- 
sion. 

She had some other motive much more near 
For leaving |uan to this new temptation ; 

But what that luotive was, I sha'n't say here ; 
Perhaps to finish Juan's education. 

Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes. 

In case he thought his wife too great a prize- 



DON yVAM. 



773 



CII. 

It was upon a day, a summer's day ; — 

Summer's indeed a very dangerous season, 
And so is spring about the end ot May ; 

The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason ; 
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say. 
And stand convicted of more truth than 
treason, 
That there are months which nature grows 

more merry in, — 
March has its hares, and May must have its 
heroine. 

cm. 

'Twas on a summer's day — the sixth of 
June : — 
I like to be particular in dates. 
Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 
They are a sort of post-house, where the 
Fates 
Change horses, making history change its 
tune. 
Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
Excepting the post-obits of theology. 



'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer 
seven — 
When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 

As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 
Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon 
Moore, 
To whom the lyre and laurels have been 
given. 
With all the trophies of triumphant song — 
He won them well, and may he wear them 
long! 

cv. 

She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
How this same interview had taken place, 

And even if I knew, I should not tell — 

People should hold their tongues in any 
case ; 

No matter how or why the thing befell, 

But there were she and Juan, face to face — 

When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, 

But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

CVI. 

How beautiful she looked ! her conscious heart 
Glowed in her cheek, and yet she felt no 
wrong. 

Oh Love ! how perfect is thy mystic art. 
Strengthening the weak, and trampling on 
the strong, 

How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along — 

The precipice she stood on was immense, 

So was her creed in her own innocence. 



CVII. 

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's 
youtii, 

And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, 

And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 
I wish these last had not occurred, in sooth, 

Because that number rarely much endears. 
And through all climes, the snowy and the 

sunny. 
Sounds ill in love,whate'er it may in money. 

CVIII. 
When people say, " I've told yow fifty times," 

They mean to scold, and very often do ; 
When poets say, " I've written y^^j rhymes," 

They make you dread that they'll recite 
them too ; 
In gangs oi fifty, thieves commit their crimes; 

A\ fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true. 
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 
A good deal may be bought iov fifty Louis. 



Julia had honor, virtue, truth, and love, 

For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore, 
By all the vows below to powers above. 

She never would disgrace the ring she wore. 
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove ; 
And while she pondered this, besides much 
more, 
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown. 
Quite by mistake — she thought it was her 
own ; 

ex. 
Unconsciously she leaned upon the other, 

Which played within the tangles of her hair ; 
And to contend with thoughts she could not 
smother 
She seemed, by the distraction of her air. 
'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 

To leave together this imprudent pair. 
She who for many years had watched her son 

so — 
I'm very certain mine would not have done so. 



The hand which still held Juan's by degrees 

Gently, but palpably confirmed its grasp, 
As if it said, " Detain me, if you please ; " 

Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp 
His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze ; 

She would have shrunk as from a toad or asp. 
Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 
***** 
cxx. 
Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take — 
Start not! still chaster reader — she'll be 
nice hence- 



774 



DON yUAN. 



Forward, and there is no great cause to quake ; 

This liberty is a poetic license, 
Which some irregularity may make 

In the design, and as I have a high sense 
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit 
To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

CXXI. 

This license is to hope the reader will 

Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill 

For want of facts would all be thrown away) , 

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 

In sight, that several months have passed; 
we'll say 

'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 

About the day — the era's more obscure. 

CXXII. 
We'll talk of that anon. — 'Tis sweet to hear 

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 
The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellowed, o'er the water's 
sweep ; 
'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 
From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 

CXXIII. 

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest 
bark 
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw 
near home ; 
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we 
come ; 
'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark. 

Or lulled by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
Of bees, the voice of girls,«the song of birds, 
The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

cxxiv. 
Sweet is the vintage, when the showering 
grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps. 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth. 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

cxxv. 
Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 

The unexpected death of some old lady 
Or gentlemen of seventy years complete. 
Who've made "us youth" wait too — too 
long already 
For an estate, or cash, or country-seat. 
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 



That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
Next owner for their double-damned post- 
obits. 

CXXVI. 
'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, 

By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end 
To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our 
quarrels. 
Particularly whh a tiresome friend : 
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 
Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy 

spot 
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

CXXVII. 
But sweeter still than this, than these, than 
all. 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone. 
Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 
The tree of knowledge has been plucked — 
all's known — 
And life yields nothing further to recall 

Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown. 
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
Fire which Prometheus filched for us from 
heaven. 

CXXVIII. 
Man's a strange animal, and makes strange 
use 
Of his own nature, and the various arts, 
And likes particularly to produce 

Some new experiment to show his parts; 
This is the age of oddities let loose, 

Where different talents find their different 
marts ; 
You'd best begin with truth, and when you've 

lost your 
Labor, there's a sure market for imposture. 

CXXIX. 
What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 
(Signs of true genius, and of empty 
pockets.) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine, 
One breaks your bones, one sets them in 
their sockets ; 
But vaccination certainly has been 

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets. 
With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, 
By borrowing a new one from an ox. 



CXXXII. 
This is the patent age of new inventions 

For killing bodies, and for saving souls, 
All propagated with the best intentions; 
Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which 
coals 
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, 
Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, 



DOi^ yUAI^. 



775 



Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
And wonderful beyond all wondrous meas- 
ure ; 
'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that 
Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleas- 
ure ; 
Few mortals know what end they would be at, 
But whether glory, power, or love, or treas- 
ure. 
The path is through perplexing ways, and 

when 
The goal is gained, we die, you know — and 

then 

CXXXIV. 
What then ? — I do not know, no more do 
you — 
And so good-night. — Return we to our 
story : 
'Twas in November, when fine days are few, 

And the far mountains wax a little hoary. 
And clap a white cape on their mantles blue ; 

And the sea dashes round the promontory, 
And the loud breaker boils against the rock. 
And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

cxxxv, 
'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night ; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
By gusts, and 'many a sparkling hearth was 
bright 
With the piled wood, round which the fam- 
ily crowd ; 
There's something cheerful in that sort of 
light, 
Even as a summer sky's without a cloud : 
I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 

cxxxvi. 
'Twas midnight — Donna Julia was in bed. 

Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
Arose a clatter might awake the dead. 

If they had never been awoke before. 
And that they have been so we all have read. 

And are to be so, at the least, once more ; — 
The door was fastened, but with voice and fist 
First knocks were heard, then " Madam — 
Madam — hist ! 



CXXXVIII. 
By this time Don Alfonso was arrived. 
With torches, friends, and servants in great 
number ; 
The major part of them had long been wived. 
And therefore paused not to disturb the 
slumber 



Of any wicked woman, who contrived 

By stealth her husband's temples to eiicum- 
ber : 
Examples of this kind are so contagious. 
Were one not punished, a// would be outra- 
geous. 

CXXXIX. 
I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 

Could enter into Don Alfonso's head ; 
But for a cavalier of his condition 

It surely was exceedingly iil-bied, 
Without a word of previous admonition. 
To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 
And summon lackeys, armed with fire and 

sword, 
To prove himself the thing he most abhorred. 



CXLIII. 
He searched, they searched, and rummaged 
everywhere. 
Closet and clothes' press, chest and window- 
seat. 
And found much linen, lace, and several pair 
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, com- 
plete. 
With other articles of ladies fair, 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat : 
Arras they pricked and curtains with their 

swords, 
And wounded several shutters, and some 
boards. 



CXLV. 
During this inquisition Julia's tongue 

Was not asleep — " Yes, search and search," 
she cried, 
" Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! 

It was for this that I became a bride ! 
For this in silence I have suffered long 

A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain. 
If there be law or lawyers, in all Spain. 

CXLVI. 
"Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more. 

If ever you indeed deserved the name, 
Is't worthy of your years ? — you have three- 
score — 

Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same — 
Is't wise of fitting, causeless to explore 

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, 
How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 



CLXI. 
But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks. 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 
When, after searching in five hundred nooks, 



776 



DON yUAJV. 



And treating a young wife with so much 
rigor, 
He gained no point, except some self-rebukes, 

Added to those his lady with such vigor 
Had poured upon him for the last half-hour, 
Quick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder- 
shower. 

CLXII. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse, 

To which the sole reply was tears, and 
sobs. 

And indications of hysterics, whose 

Prologue is always certain throes, and 
throbs, 

Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose : 
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's ; 

He saw too, in perspective, her relations. 

And then he tried to muster all his patience. 

CLXIII. 

He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, 

But sage Antonia cut him short before 
The anvil of his speech received the hammer. 
With " Pray, sir, leave the room and say no 
more. 
Or madam dies." — Alfonso muttered, "D — n 
her," 
But nothing else, the time of words was 
o'er ; 
He cast a rueful look or two, and did. 
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 

CLXIV. 

With him retired his "posse comitatus," 

The attorney last, who lingered near the 
door. 

Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
Antonia let him — not a little sore 

At this most strange and unexplained " hiatus " 
In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 



An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 
The door was fastened in his legal face. 



CLXXXVIII. 
Here ends this canto. — Need I sing, or say, 
How Juan, naked, favored by the night, • 
Who favors what she should not, found his 
way. 
And reached his home in an unseemly 
plight ? 
The pleasant scandal which arose next day, 
The nine days' wonder which was brought 
to light, 
And how Alfonso sued for a divorce. 
Were in the English newspapers, of course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If you would like to see the whole proceed- 
ings. 
The depositions, and the cause at full. 
The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 

Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul. 
There's more than one edition, and the read- 
ings 
Are various, but they none of them are dull ; 
The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gur- 

ney, 
Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 



But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
Of one of the most circulating scandals 

That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 

First vowed (and never had she vowed in vain) 
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles ; 

And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 

She sent her son to be shipped off from Cadiz. 



cAnto the second. 



I. 

Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of 
nations, 
Holland, France, England, Germany or 
Spain, 
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, 

It mends their morals, never mind the 
pain : 
The best of mothers and of educations 

In Juan's case were but employed in vain, 
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, 

he 
Became divested of his native modesty. 



Had he but been placed at a public school, 
In the third form, or even in the fourth. 

His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 
At least, had he been nurtured in the north ; 

Spain may prove an exception to the rule. 
But then exceptions always prove its worth — 

A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 

Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 



I can't say that it puzzles me at all. 

If all things be considered : first, there was 



DON JUAN. 



777 



His lady-mother, mathematical, 

A never mind ; — his tutor, an old ass ; 

A pretty woman — (that's quite natural, 

Or else the thing had hardly come to ]->ass) 
A husband rather old, not much in unity 
With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 

IV. 

Well — well, the world must turn upon its 
axis. 
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails. 
And live and die, make love, and pay our 
taxes, 
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our 
sails ; 
The king commands us, and the doctor 
quacks us, 
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, 
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame. 
Fighting, devotion, dust, — perhaps a name. 

V. 

I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — 
A pretty town, I recollect it well — 

'Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is 
(Or was, before Peru learned to rebel). 

And such sweet girls — I mean, such graceful 
ladies. 
Their very walk would make your bosom 
swell ; 

I can't describe it, though so much it strike, 

Nor liken it — I never saw the like : 



An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 

New broke, a camelopard, a gazelle. 
No — none of these will do; — and then their 
garb! 
Their veil and petticoat — Alas! to dwell 
Upon such things would very near absorb 
A canto — then their feet and ankles, — 
well, 
Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor quite 

ready, 
(And so, my sober Muse — come, let's be 
steady — 

VII. 

Chaste Muse ! — well, if you must, you must) 
— the veil 
Thrown back a moment with the glancing 
hand. 
While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you 
pale, 
Flashes into the heart : — all sunny land 
Of love 1 when I forget you, may I fail 

To say my prayers — but never was 

there planned 
A dress through which the eyes give such a 

volley, 
nJxcepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 



VIII. 
But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 
Her son to Cadiz only to embark; 
To stay there had not answered her intent, 
But why ? — we leave the reader in the 
dark — 
"Twas for a voyage that the young man was 
meant, 
As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
To wean him from the wickedness of earth. 
And send him like a dove of promise forth. 

IX. 
Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 

According to direction, then received 
A lecture and some morxey : for four springs 

He was to travel ; and though Inez grieved 
(As every kind of parting has its stings). 

She hoped he would improve — perhaps 
believed 
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 



In the mean time, to pass her hours away. 
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school 

For naughty children, who would rather play 
(Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool; 

Infants of three years old were taught that day. 
Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool : 

The great success of Juan's education. 

Spurred her to teach another generation. 

XI. 

Juan embarked — the ship got under way. 
The wind was fair, the water passing rough ; 

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, 

As I, who've crossed it oft, know well 
enough ; 

And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 
Flies in one's face, and makes it weather- 
tough ; 

And there he stood to take, and take again, 

H is first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 

XII. 

I can't but say it is an awkward sight 
To see one's native land receding through 

The growing waters ; it unmans one quite, 
Especially when life is rather new : 

I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 
But almost every other country's blue. 

When gazing on them, mystified by distance. 

We enter on our nautical existence. 

XIII. 
So Juan stood, bewildered on the deck : 
The wind sung, cordage strained, and sail- 
ors swore. 
And the ship creaked, the town became a 
speck, 



778 



DON JUAN. 



From which away so fair and fast they bore. 
The best of remedies is a beef-steak 

Against sea-sickness : try it, sir, before 
You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
For I have found it answer — so may you. 

XIV. 

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, 
Beheld his native Spain receding far : 

First partings form a lesson hard to learn, 
Even nations feel this when they go to war ; 

There is a sort of unexprest concern, 

A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar : 

At leaving even the most unpleasant people 

And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 

But Juan had got many things to leave. 
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, 

So that he had much better cause to grieve 
Than many persons more advanced in life ; 

And if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quitting even those we quit in strife. 

No doubt we weep for those the heart en- 
dears — 

That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 

XVI. 

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : 

I'd weep, — but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
And such light griefs are not a thing to 
die on ; 

Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
Themselves ; and the next time their ser- 
vants tie on 

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 

Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 

And Juan wept, and much he sighed and 
thought. 
While his salt tears dropped into the salt 
sea, 
"Sweets to the sweet;" (I like so much to 
quote ; 
You mustexcuse this extract, — 'tis where she, 
The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
Flowers to the grave;) and, sobbing often, 
he 
Reflected on his present situation. 
And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVIII. 

" Farewell, my Spain ! a long farewell ! " he 
cried, 

" Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died. 

Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! 

Farewell, my mother ! and, since all is o'er, 



Farewell, too, dearest Julia ! — (here he dre\» 
Her letter out again, and read it through). 



" And oh ! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
But that's impossible, and cannot be — 

Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 

Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair ! 
Or think of any thing excepting thee ; 

A mind diseased no remedy can physic — 

(Here the ship gave a lurch and he grew sea 
sick). 

XX. 

" Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here h^ 
fell sicker) 

Oh, Julia 1 what is every other woe ? — 
(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor, 

Pedro, Battista, help me down below). 
Julia, my love ! — (you rascal, Pedro 
quicker) — 

Oh, Julia ! — (this curst vessel pitches so) - 
Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching ! " 
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching). 

XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart. 
Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 

Beyond the best apothecary's art, 
The loss of love, the treachery of friends, 

Or death of those we dote on, when a part 
Of us dies with them as each fond hope endkr *. 

No doubt he would have been much morep*^ 
thetic, 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII. 
Love's a capricious power: I've known it hold 

Out through a fever caused by its own ht>*it. 
But be much puzzled by a cough and cold 

And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 
Against all noble maladies he's bold. 

But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet, 
Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, 
Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 

XXIII, 

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
About the lower region of the bowels; 

Love, who heroically breathes a vein. 
Shrinks from the application of hot toMels, 

And purgatives are dangerous to his reig i, 
Sea-sickness death : his love was peHect, 
how else 

Could Juan's passion, while the billows rear. 

Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 

^XIV. 

The ship, called the most holy " Trinidada," 

Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 
For there the Spanish family Moncada 



DON yUAN. 



779 



Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born : 
They were relations, and for them he had a 

Letter of introduction, which the morn 
Of his departure had been sent him by 
His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedriilo, 
Who several languages did understand, 
But now lay sick and speechless on his pil- 
low, 
And, rocking in his hammock, longed for land. 
His headache being increased by every bil- 
low ; 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole 

made 
His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI, 
' Twas not without some reason, for the wind 

Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 
And though 'twas not much to a naval mind, 

Some landsmen would have looked a little 
pale, ' 

For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 

At sunset they began to take in sail. 
For the sky showed it would come on to blow. 
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXVII. 

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift 
Threw the ship right into the trough of the 
sea, 
Which struck her aft, and made an awkward 
rift, 
Started the stern-post, also shattered the 
Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could 
lift 
Herself from out her present jeopardy. 
The rudder tore away : 'twas time to sound 
The pumps, and there were four feet water 
found. 

XXVIII. 
One gang of people instantly was put 

Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
To get up part of the cargo, and what not ; 

But they could not come at the leak as yet; 
At last they did get at it really, but 

Still their salvation was an even bet: 
The water rushed through in a way quite 

puzzling, 
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales 
of muslin, 

XXIX. 
Into the opening; but all such ingredients 
Would have been vain, and they must have 
gone down, 
Despite of all their efforts and expedients. 
But for the pumps : I'm glad to make them 
known 



To all the brother tars who may have need 
hence, 
For Hfty tons of water were upthrown 

By them per hour, and they had all been un- 
done. 

But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 

XXX. 

As day advanced, the weather seemed to 
abate. 
And then the leak they reckoned to reduce. 
And keep the ship afloat, though three feet 
yet 
Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in 
use. 
The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
A squall came on, and while some guns 
broke loose, 
A gust — which all descriptive power tran- 
scends — 
Laid with one blast the ship on her beam 
ends. 

XXXI. 

There she lay, motionless, and seemed upset ; 
The water left the hold, and washed the 
decks. 
And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 
For they remember battles, fires, and 
wrecks. 
Or any other thing that brings regret. 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or head*, 
or necks : 
Thus drownings are much talked of by the 

divers, 
And swimmers, wno may chance to be sur- 
vivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away, 
Both main and mizzen ; first the mizzen 
went, 
The main-mast followed : but the ship still 
lay 
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 
Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and 
they 
Eased her at last (although we never meant 
To part with all till every hope was blighted). 
And then with violence the old ship righted. 



XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once 
more ; 
Day broke and the wind lulled : the masts 
were gone. 
The leak increased; shoals round her, but 
no shore ; 
The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though be- 
fore 



m 



DOM yuAi^. 



Their desperate efforts seemed all useless 
grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to 

bale — 
The stronger pumped, the weaker thrummed 
a sail. 

XXXIX. 
U»der the vessel's keel the sail was past, 

And for the moment it had some effect"; 
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, 
Nor rag of canvas, what could they ex- 
pect ? 
But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 

'Tis never too late to be wholly wrecked : 
And though 'tis true that man can only die 

once, 
'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

XL. 
There winds and waves had hurled them, and 
from thence, 
Without their will, they carried them away; 
For they were forced with steering to dis- 
pense, 
And never had as yet a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even com- 
mence 
A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good 

luck. 
Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 

XLI. 
The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less, 
But the ship labored so, they scarce could 
hope 
To weather out much longer ; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to 
cope 
For want of water, and their solid mess 

Was scant enough : in vain the telescope 
Was used — nor sail nor shore appeared in 

sight, 
Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 

XLII. 
Again the weather threatened, — again blew 

A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
Wat>r appeared ; yet, though the people knew 
All this, the most were patient, and some 
bold, 
Until the chains and leathers were worn 
through 
Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she 
rolled, 
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIII. 
Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
In his rough eyes, and told the captain, he 



Could do no more : he was a man in years. 
And iopg had voyaged through many a 
stormy sea. 

And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
That made his eyelids as a woman's be. 

But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, 

Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 

XLIV. 
The ship was evidently settling now 

Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, 
Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints — but there were 
none 
To pay them with ; and some looked o'er the 
bow. 
Some hoisted out the boats ; and there was 
one 
That begged Pedrillo for an absolution. 
Who told him to be damned — in his confu- 
sion. 

XLV. 

Some lashed them in their hammocks; some- 
put on 
Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; 
Some cursed the day on which they saw the 
sun. 
And gnashed their teeth, and, howling, tore 
their hair; 
And others went on as they had begun. 

Getting the boats out, being well aware 
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea. 
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 

XLVI. 

The worst of all was, that in their condition. 
Having been several days in great distress, 

'Twas difficult to get out such provision 
As now might render their long suffering less ; 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
Their stock was damaged by the weather'? 
stress : 

Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter. 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter 

XLVII. 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow, 
Some pounds of bread, though injured by 
the wet ; 
Watei-. a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 

Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 
A portion of their beef up from below. 

And with a piece of pork, moreover, met 
But scarce enough to serve them for a lunch- 
eon — 
Then there was rum, eight gallons in / 
puncheon. 

XLVIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 



DON JUAN. 



781 



And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be 
stored, 

To save one half the people then on board. 

XLIX. 
'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down 

Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, 
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the 
frown. 
Of one whose hate is masked but to assail. 
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was 
shown, 
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale, 
And the dim desolate deep : twelve days had 

Fear 
Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 



Some trial had been making at a raft, 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have 
laughed. 
If any laughter at such times could be. 

Unless with people who too much have 
quaffed, 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee. 

Half epileptical, and half hysterical : — 

Their preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, 
spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast 
loose. 
That still could keep afloat the struggling 
tars, 
For yet they strove, although of no great 
use : 
There was no light in heaven but a few 
stars. 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their 
crews : 
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 
And, going down head foremost — sunk, in 
short. 

LII. 
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 
Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the 
brave, — • 
Then someleaped overboardwith dreadfulyell. 

As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
And the sea yawned around her like a hell. 
And down she sucked with her the whirl- 
ing wave, 
Like one who grapples with his enemy. 
And strives to strangle hjm before he die, 



LIII. 
And first one universal shriek there rushed. 

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed, 

Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
Of billows ; but at intervals there gushed. 

Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
Of some' strong swimmer in his agony. 



The boats, as stated, had got off before, 
And in them crowded several of the crew ; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew 

There was slight chance of reaching any 
shore ; 
And then they were too many, though so 
few — 

Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. 

Were counted in them when they got afloat. 

LV. 
All the rest perished ; near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies; and what's worse, 
alas ! 
When over Catholics the ocean rolls, 

Thev must wait several weeks before a mass 

Takes'off one peck of purgatorial coals. 

Because, till people know what's come to 

pass. 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that's said. 



Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 

It seemed as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's 
pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case : 

Battista, though (a name called shortly Tita), 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 



Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save. 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 

Left him so drunk, he jumped into the wave 
As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 

And so he found a wine-and-watery grave ; 
They could not rescue him although so close. 

Because the sea ran higher every minute, 

And for the boat — the crew kept crowding 
in it. 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel,— -which had been Don 
J6se's. 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think. 
For on such things the memory reposes 



I 



782 



DON JUAN. 



With tenderness — stood howling on the 
brink, 
Knowing, (dogs have intellectual noses!) 

No doubt, the vessel was about to sink ; 
And Juan caught him up, and e'er he stepped 
Off, threw him in, then after him he leaped. 

LIX. 
He also stuffed his money where he could 

About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 
Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 

Not knowing what himself to say, or do, 
As every rising wave his dread renewed; 

But Juan, trusting they might still get 
through. 
And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 
Thus reembarked his tutor and his spaniel. 

LX. 
'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet. 

That the sail was becalmed between the seas. 
Though on the wave's high top too much to 
set. 
They dared not take it in for all the breeze : 
Each sea curled o'er the stern, and kept them 
wet. 
And made them bale without a moment's 
ease. 
So that themselves as well as hopes were 

damped. 
And the poor Httle cutter quickly swamped. 

LXI. 
Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 

Kept above water, with an oar for mast. 
Two blankets stitched together, answering ill 

Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast: 
Though every wave rolled menacing to fill, 

And present peril all before surpassed, 
They grieved for those who perished with the 

cutter 
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 



The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
Of the continuance of the gale : to run 

Before the sea until it should grow fine, 
Was all that for the present could be done: 

A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
Were served out to the people, who begun 

To faint, and damaged bread wet through the 
bags, 

And most of them had little clothes but rags. 

LXIII. 
They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
Wliich left scarce room for motion or ex- 
ertion ; 
They did their best to modify their case. 
One half sate up though numbed with the 
immersipn 



While t'other half were laid down in their 

place. 
At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the 

tertian 
Ague in its cold fit, they filled their boat, 
With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 

LXIV. 

'Tis very certain the desire of life 

Prolongs it : this is obvious to physicians. 

When patients, neither plagued with friends 
nor wife. 
Survive through very desperate conditions. 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity. 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity,! 



'Tis said that persons living on annuities 
Are longer lived than others, — God knows' 
why, 

Unless to plague the granters, — yet so it is, 
That some, I really think, do never die ; 

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 
And that's their mode of furnishing supply : 

In my young days they lent me cash that way, 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXVI. 
'Tis thus with people in an open boat. 

They live upon the love of life, and bear 
More than can be believed, or even thought. 
And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and i 
tear; 
And hardship still has been the sailor's lot. 
Since Noah's ark went cruising here and 
there ; 
She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo, 

LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production, 
And must have meals, at least one meal a 
day; 

He cannot five, like woodcocks, upon suction. 

But, like the shark and tiger, must have 

prey; 

Although his anatomical construction 

Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way. 
Your laboring people think beyond all ques- 
tion. 
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

LXVIII. 
And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might re- 
new. 
And lying on their weariness like balm. 
Lulled them like turtles sleeping on th? blue 



DON JUAN. 



783 



Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, 
And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
instead of hoarding it with due precision. 



The consequence was easily foreseen — 
They ate up all they had, and drank their 
wine. 
In spite of all remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 
They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish 
men ! 
And carry them to shore ; these hopes were 
fine, 
But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 
It would have been more wise to save their 
victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air. 
And Ocean slumbered like an unweaned 
child : 
The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there. 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and 
mild — 
With their one oar (I wish they had a pair) 
What could they do ? and hunger's rage 
grew wild : 
So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 
Was killed, and portioned out for present 
eating. 

LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide. 
And Juan, who had still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died. 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws. 

With some remorse received (though first de- 
nied) 
As a great favor one of the fore-paws. 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devoured it, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning 
sun 
Blistered and scorched, and, stagnant on 
the sea. 
They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none. 
Save in the breeze that came not; savagely 
They glared upon each other — all was done, 
Water, and wine, and food, — and you might 
see 
The longings of the cannibal arise 
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIII. 

At length one whispered his companion, who 
Whispered another, and thus it went round, 

f\.nd then into a hoarser murmur grew. 
An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 



And when his comrade's thought each suf- 
ferer knew, 
'Twas but his own, suppressed till now, he 
found : 
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood. 
And who should die to be his fellow's food. 



LXXV. 

The lots were made, and marked, and mixed, 
and handed, 

In silent horror, and their distribution 
Lulled even the savage hunger which de- 
manded, 

Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 
None in particular had sought or planned it, 

'Twas nature gnawed them to this resolution, 
By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 



The land appeared a high and rocky coast. 
And higher grew the mountains as they 
drew. 
Set by a current, toward it: they were lost 

In various conjectures, for none knew 
To what part of the earth they had been tost. 
So changeable had been the winds that 
blew; 
Some thought it was Mount ^tna, some the 

highlands 
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 



Meantime the current, with a rising gale. 

Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 
Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale : 
Their living freight was now reduced to 
four, 
And three dead, whom their strength could 
not avail 
To heave into the deep with those before, 
Though the two sharks still followed them, 

and dashed 
The spray into their faces as they splashed. 

CII. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had 
done 
Their work on them by turns, and thinned 
them to 
Such things a mother had not known her son 

Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 
By night chilled, by day scorched, thus one 
bv one 
They perished, until withered to these few, 
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water, 



784 



DON JUAN. 



As they drew nigh the land, which now was 
seen 
Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
They telt the freshness of its growing green, 
That waved in forest-tops, and smoothed 
the air, 
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 
From glistening waves, and skies so hot 
and bare — 
Lovely seemed any object that should sweep 
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

CIV. 
The shore looked wild, without a trace of man, 

And girt by formidable waves ; but they 
Were mad for land, and thus their course they 
ran. 
Though right ahead the roaring breakers 
lay : 
A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray. 
But finding no place for their landing better, 
They ran the boat for shore, — and overset 
her. 

cv. 
But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; 
And having learnt to swim in that sweet river, 
Had often turned the art to some account: 
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, 
He could, perhaps, have passed the Helles- 
pont, 
As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 

CVI. 
So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark. 
He buoyed his boyish limbs, and strove to 
ply 
With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was 
dark, 
The beach which lay before him, high and 
dry : 
The greatest danger here was from a shark, 

That carried off his neighbor by the thigh ; 
As for the other two, they could not swim, 
So nobody arrived on shore but him. 



Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 

Which, providentially for him, was washed 
Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 
And the hard wave o'erwhelmed him as 
'twas dashed 
Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore 
The waters beat while he thereto was 
lashed ; 
At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 
Rolled on the beach, half senseless, from the 
sea; 



CVIII. 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he 
clung 
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave. 
From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, 
Should suck him back to her insatiate! 
grave : 

And there he lay, full length, where he wasj 
flung, 
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave. 
With just enough of life to feel its pain. 
And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. 



With slow and staggering effort he arose. 
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
And quivering hand ; and then he looked for 
those 
Who long had been his mates upon the sea ; 
But none of them appeared to share his woes, 
Save one, a corpse from out the famished 1 
three. 
Who died two days before, and now had 1 

found 
An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 

ex. 

And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast. 
And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the 
sand 

Swam round and round, and all his senses 
passed : 
He fell upon his side, and his stretched hand 

Drooped drippingon the oar (their jury-mast), 
And, like a withered lily, on the land 

His slender frame and pallid aspect lay. 

As fair a thing as e'er was formed of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 

He knew not, for the earth was gone for him. 

And Time had nothing more of night nor day 

For his congealing blood, and senses dim; 

And how this heavy faintness passed away 

He knew not, till each painful pulse and 

limb. 

And tingling vein, seemed throbbing back to 

life. 
For Death, though vanquished, still retired 
with strife. 

CXII. 

His eyes he opened, shut, again unclosed, 
For all was doubt and dizziness ; he thought 

He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
And felt again with his despair o'ei wrought. 

And wished it death in which he had reposed. 
And then once more his feelings back were 
brought, 

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 

A lovely female face of seventeen, 



DON yUAM. 



785 



CXI 1 1. 

'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small 
mouth 

Seemed almost prying into his for breath ; 
And chafing him, the sott warm hand of youth 

Recalled his answering spirits back from 
death ; 
And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 

Each pulse to animation, till beneath 
Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
To these kind efforts made a low reply. 



Then was the cordial poured, and mantle flung 
Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair 
arm 
Raised higher the faint head which o'er it 
hung ; 
And her transparent cheek, all pure and 
warm, 
Pillowed his death-Uke forehead ; then she 
wrung 
His dewy curls, long drenched by every 
storm ; 
And watched with eagerness each throb that 

drew 
A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, too. 

cxv. 

And lifting him with care into the cave, 
The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 

Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
And more robust of figure, — then begun 

To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
Light to the rocks that roofed them, which 
the sun 

Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 

She was, appeared distinct, and tall, and fair. 

cxvi. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold. 

That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair. 
Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were 
rolled 
In braids behind ; and though her stature 
were 
Even of the highest for a female mould, 

They nearly reached her heel ; and in her air 
There was something which bespoke com- 
mand. 
As one who was a lady in the land. 

CXVII. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
Were black as death, their lashes the same 
hue, 

Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
Deepest attraction ; for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 



'Tis as the snake late coiled, who pours his 

length. 
And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

CXVIII. 
Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure 
dye 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 
Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us 
sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 
Fit for the model of a statuary, 

(A race of mere imposters, when all's done — 
I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 
Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 

CXIX. 
I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just 

One should not rail without a decent cause : 
There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 

I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 
A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 

Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling 
laws 
They will destroy a face which mortal thought 
Ne'er compassed, nor less mortal chisel 
wrought. 

CXX. 
And such was she, the lady of the cave : 
Her dress was very different from the Span- 
ish, 
Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; 
For, as you know, the Spanish women ban- 
ish 
Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while 
wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 
The basquina and the mantilla, they 
Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXI. 

But with our damsel this was not the case : 

Her dress was many-colored, finely spun ; 
Her locks curled negligently round her face, 
But through them gold and gems profusely 
shone : 
Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
Flowed in her veil, and many a precious 
stone 
Flashed on her little hand ; but, what was 

shocking 
Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stock- 
ing. 

CXXII. 
The other female's dress w'as not unlike, 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike. 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike. 
Was coarser; and her air, though firm, 
less free : 



786 



DON yUAM. 



Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

CXXIII. 

And these two tended him, and cheered him 
both 
With food and raiment, and those soft 
attentions, 
Which are — (as I must own) — of female 
growth, 
And have ten thousand delicate inventions : 
They made a most superior mess of broth, 

A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, 
But the best dish that e'er was cooked since 

- Homer's 
Achilles ordered dinner for new comers. 

CXXIV. 

I'll tell you who they were, this female pair, 
Lest they should seem princesses in dis- 
guise ; 

Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air 
Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize ; 

And so, in short, the girls they really were 
They shall appear before your curious eyes. 

Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 

Of an old man, who lived upon the water. 

cxxv. 

A fisherman he had been in his youth. 
And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 

But other speculations were, in sooth, 
Added to his connection with the sea, 

Perhaps not so respectable, in truth : 
A little smuggling, and some piracy. 

Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 

Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A fisher, therefore, was he, — though of men. 

Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fished 
For wandering merchant-vessels, now and 
then, 
And sometimes caught as many as he 
wished ; 
The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 

He sought in the slave-market too, and 
dished 
Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade. 
By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

CXXVII. 

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 

A very handsome house from out his guilt. 
And there he lived exceedingly at ease; 

Heaven knows, what cash he got or blood he 
spilt, 
A sad old fellow was he, if you please ; 

But this I know, it was a spacious building. 

Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 



CXXVIII. 
He had an only daughter, called Haidee, 

The great heiress of the Eastern Isles; 
Besides, so very beautiful was she. 

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles : 
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 

She grew to womanhood, and between 
whiles 
Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
How to accept a better in his turn. 

cxxix. 
And walking out upon the beach, below 
The chff, towards sunset, on that day she 
found, 
Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 
Don Juan, almost famished, and half 
drowned ; 
But being naked, she was shocked, you know. 
Yet deemed herself in common pity bound, 
As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 
A stranger " dying, with so white a skin. 

cxxx. 

But taking him into her father's house 
Was not exactly the best way to save, 

But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
Or people in a trance into their grave ; 

Because the good old man had so much 

" vov<;" 

Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, 
He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 
And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

cxxxi. - 1 

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it 
best 
(A virgin always on her maid relies) 
To place him in the cave for present rest : 

And when, at last, he opened his black eyes, 
Their charity increased about their guest ; 

And their compassion grew to such a size, 
It opened half the turnpike-gates to heaven — 
(St. Paul says, 'tis the toll which much must 
be given). 

CXXXII. 
They made a fire, — but such a fire as they 

Upon the moment could contrive with such j 
Materials as were cast up round the bay, — i 
Some broken planks, and oars, that to the 
touch 
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay, 

A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such 

plenty, 
That there was fuel to have furnished twenty, 

CXXXIII. 

He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse. 

For Haidee stripped her sables off to make 
His couch ; and, that he might be more at ease, 



DON yUAN. 



787 



And warm, in case by chance he should 
awake, 
They also gave a petticoat apiece. 

She and her maid, — and promised by day- 
break 
To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish 
For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 

cxxxiv. 

And thus they left him to his lone repose : 
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead. 

Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows). 
Just for the present; and in his lulled head 

Not even a vision of his former woes 
Throbbed in accursed dreams, which some- 
times spread 

Unwelcome visions of our former years. 

Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

CXXXV. 

Young Juan slept all dreamless: — but the 
maid. 
Who smoothed his pillow, as she left the 
den 
Looked back upon him, and a moment stayed. 
And turned, believing that he called again. 
He slumbered ; yet she thought, at least she 
said 
(The heart will slip, even as the tongue and 
pen), 
He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 
That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

cxxxvi. 
And pensive to her father's house she went. 

Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
Better than she knew what, in fact, she meant, 

She being wiser by a year or two : 
A year or two's an age when rightly spent. 

And Zoe spent hers, as most women do, 
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
Which is acquired in Nature's good old col- 
lege. 

CXXXVII. 

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering 

still 

Fast in his cave, and nothing clashed upon 

His rest ; the rushing of the neighboring rill, 

And the young beams of the excluded sun. 

Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill ; 

And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
Had suffered more — his hardships were com- 
parative 
To those related in my grand-dad's " Narra- 
tive." 



CXLI, 
And Haid6e met the morning face to face ; 
Her own was freshest, though a feverish 
flush 



Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose 
race 

From heart to cheek is curbed into a blush, 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base. 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread, 
Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 

CXLII. 
And down the cliff the island virgin came, 
And near the cave her quick light footsteps 
drew. 
While the sun smiled on her with his first 
flame. 
And young Aurora kissed her lips with dew, 
Taking her for a sister ; just the same 

Mistake you would have made on seeing 
the two. 
Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair. 
Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 

CXLIII. 
And when into the cavern Haidee stepped 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept ; 
And then she stopped, and stood as if in 
awe 
(For sleep is awfiil), and on tiptoe crept 

And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw. 
Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as 

death 
Bent, with hushed lips, that drank his scarce- 
drawn breath. 



CXLIX. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept 
again. 

But the fair face which met his eyes forbade 
Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 

Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 
For woman's face was never formed in vain 

For Juan, so that even when he prayed 
He turned from grisly saints, and martyrs 

hairy, 
To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 



And thus upon his elbow he arose. 

And looked upon the lady, in whose cheek 

The pale contended with the purple rose, 
As with an effort she began to speak ; 

Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose. 
Although she told him, in good modern 
Greek, 

With an Ionian accent, low and sweet. 

That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat, 

CLI. 

Now Juan could not understand a word. 
Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 



m 



DON yuA^. 



And her voice was the warble of a bird, 
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear. 

That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 

Without knowing why — an overpowering 
tone, 

Whence Melody descends as from a throne. 

CLII. 
And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 

By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 

By the watchman, or some such reality. 
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 

At least it is a heavy sound to me, 
Who like a morning slumber — for the night 
Shows stars and women in a better hght. 



CLVII. 
But to resume. The languid Juan raised 

His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
A sight on wliich he liad not lately gazed. 

As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 
Three or four things, for which the Lord he 
praised. 

And, feeling still the famished vulture gnaw. 
He fell upon whate'er was offered, like 
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVIII. 
He ate, and he was well supplied : and she, 
Who watched him like a mother, would 
have fed 
Him past all bounds, because she smiled to 
see 
Such appetite in one she had deemed dead : 
But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 

Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 
That famished people must be slowly nurst. 
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 



CLX. 

Next they — he being naked, save a tattered 
Pair of scarce decent trousers — went to 
work. 
And in the fire his recent rags they scattered. 
And dressed him, for the present, like a 
Turk, 
Or Greek — that is, aUhough it not much 
mattered. 
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 
They furnished him, entire, except some 

stitches. 
With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 



And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at 
speaking, 
But not a word could Juan comprehend, 



Although he listened so that the young Greek 
in 
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an 
end ; 
And, as he interrupted not, went eking 

Her speech out to her protege and friend. 
Till pausing at the last her breath to take, : 
She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and 
signs. 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking 
eye. 
And read (the only book she could) the 
lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, 
The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 

And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 
And thus in every look she saw exprest 
A world of words, and things at which she 
guessed. 

CLXIII. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 
And words repeated after her, he took 

A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise. 
No doubt, less of her language than her 
look : 

As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book. 

Thus Juan learned his alpha beta better 

From Haid6e's glance than any graven letter. 

CLXIV. 

'Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange 
tongue 
By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean. 
When both the teacher and the taught are 
young. 
As was the case, at least, where I have 
been; 
They smile so when one's right, and when 
one's wrong 
They smile still more, and then there inter- 
vene 
Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste 

kiss ; — 
I learned the little that I know by this : 

CLXV. 

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and 
Greek, 

Italian not at all, having no teachers ; 
Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 

Learning that language chiefly from its 
preachers, 
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 

I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
I hate your poets, so read none of those 



DON yUAN. 



789 



CLXVI. 

As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 
A wanderer from the British world of 
fashion, 
Where I, like other " dogs, have had my day," 
Like other men, too, may have had my 
passion — 
But that, like other things, has passed away. 
And all her fools whom I could lay the lash 
on : 
Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought 

to me 
But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 

CLXVII. 

Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
To hear new words, and to repeat them ; 
but 
Some feelings, universal as the sun. 

Were such as could not in his breast be 
shut 
More than within the bosom of a nun : 

He was in love, — as you would be^ no 
doubt. 
With a young benefactress, — so was she. 
Just in the way we very often see. 



CLXXIV. 

And thus a moon rolled on, and fair Haid^e 
Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 

Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Remained unknown within his craggy nook ; 

At last her father's prows put out to sea. 
For certain merchantmen upon the look. 

Not as of yore to carry off an lo, 

But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then came her freedom, for she had no 
mother. 

So that, her father being at sea, she was 
Free as a married woman, or such other 

Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 
Without even the incumbrance of a brother. 

The freest she that ever gazed on glass: 
I speak of Christian lands in this comparison. 
Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in gar- 
rison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolonged her visits and her talk 
(For they must talk), and he had learnt to 
say 

So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
For little had he wandered since the day 

On which, like a young flower snapped from 
the stalk. 
Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 

And thus they walked out in the afternoon. 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 



CLXXVI I. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast 
With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 

Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host. 
With here and there a creek, whose aspect 
wore 

A better welcome to the tempest-tost ; 

And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar. 

Save on the dead long summer days, which 
make 

The outstretched ocean glitter like a lake. 



CLXXXI. 

The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
Was just describing — Yes, it was the 
coast — 

Lay at this period quiet as the sky. 

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost, 

And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry. 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost 

By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret 

Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And forth they wandered, her sire being gone, 
As I have said, upon an expedition ; 

And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 
Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 

She waited on her lady with the sun. 

Thought daily service was her only mission, 

Bringing warm water, wreathing her long 
tresses. 

And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 

CLXXXIII. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 

Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill. 
Which then seems as if the whole earth it 
bounded. 
Circling all nature, hushed, and dim, and 
still. 
With the far mountain-crescent half surround- 
ed 
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 
Upon the other, and the rosy sky. 
With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And thus they wandered forth, and hand in 
hand. 
Over the shining pebbles and the shells. 
Glided along the smooth and hardened sand, 

And in the worn and wild receptacles 
Worked by the storms, yet worked as it were 
planned. 
In hollow halls, with sparry roof and cells, 
They turned to rest; and, each clasped by an 

arhi, 
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charni. 



790 



DON JUAN. 



CLXXXV. 

They looked up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below, ' 
Whence the broad moon rose circling into 
sight ; 

They heard the waves splash, and the wind so 
low, 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — and, beholding this. 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 



CXCIX. 
Alas! the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 

And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring 



To them but mockeries of the past alone, 

And their revenge is as the tiger's springs '. 
Deadly, and quick, and crusliing ; yet, as real 
Torture is theirs, what they inflict tliey feel. 

CC. 
They are right ; for man, to man so oft un- 
just, 
Is always so to women; one sole bound 
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 
Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts de- 
spond 
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 

Buys them in marriage — and what rests be- 
yond ? 
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, 
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



Hail, Muse ! et cetera. — We left Juan sleep- 
ing. 
Pillowed upon a fair and happy breast. 
And watched by eyes that never yet knew 
weeping. 
And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest 
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping. 

Or know who rested there, a foe to rest, 
Had soiled the current of her sinless years. 
And turned her pure heart's purest blood to 
tears ! 

II. 
Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours 

Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah why 
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed 
thy bowers. 
And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
As those who dote on odors pluck the flowers. 
And place them on their breast — but place 
to die — 
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 



'Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign 
Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 

That love and marriage rarely can combine, 
Although they both are born in the same 
clime ; 

Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 
A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 

Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor 

Down to a very homely household savor, 



VI. 
There's something of antipathy, as 'twere, 

Between their present and their future state ; 
A kind of flattery that's hardly fair 

Is used until the truth arrives too late — 
Yet what can people do, except despair ? 

The same things change their names at such 
a rate ; 
For instance — passion in a lover's glorious. 
But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 

VII. 

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 

They sometimes also get a Uttle tired 
(But that, of course, is rare), and then despond : 

The same things cannot always be admired, 
Yet 'tis " so nominated in the bond," 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
Sad thought! to lose the spouse .that was 

adorning 
Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 

VIII. 

There's doubtless something in domestic do- 
ings 
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis ; 
Romances paintatfull length people'swooings, 

But only give a bust of marriages ; 
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings. 

There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss: 
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 
He would have written sonnets all his life ? 

IX. 

All tragedies are finished by a death. 
All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 



DON yUAN. 



791 



The future states of both are left to faith, 

For authors tear description might disparage 
The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, 
And then both worlds would punish their 
miscarriage ; 
So leaving each their priest and prayer-book 

ready, 
They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 



The only two that in my recollection 

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, 
are 
Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 

Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 
Of fault or temper ruined the connection 
(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to 
mar) ; 
But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 
Were not drawn from their spouses, you con- 
ceive. 

XI. 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 
By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 

Although my opinion may require apology, 
Deem this a commentator's phantasy. 

Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge 
he 
Decided thus, and showed good reason 
^vhy ; 

I think that Dante's more abtruse ecstatics 

Meant to personify the mathematics. 



The good old gentleman had been detained 
By winds and waves, and some important 
captures ; 
And, in the hope of more, at sea remained. 
Although a squall or two had damped his 
raptures, 
By swamping one of the prizes; he had 
chained 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters 
In numbered lots ; they ail had cuffs and col- 
lars. 
And averaged each from ten to a hundred 
dollars. 

XVI. 

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 
Among his friends the Mainots ; some he 
sold 
To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
Tossed overboard unsalable (being old) ; 
The rest — save here and there some richer 
one, 
Reserved for future ransom in the hold, 
Were linked alike, as for the common people 

he 
Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli, 



XVII. 

The merchandise was served m the same 
way. 

Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 
Except some certain portions of the prey. 

Light classic articles of female want, 
French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, tea- 
pot, tray, 

Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 
All which selected from the spoil he gathers. 
Robbed for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

XVI II. 
A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw, 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens. 
He chose from several animals he saw — 
A terrier, too, which once had been a Bri- 
ton's, 
Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a 
pittance ; 
These to secure in this strong blowing weather, 
He caged m one huge hamper altogether. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affairs. 

Despatching single cruisers here and there, 
His vessel having need of some repairs, 
He shaped his course to where his daugh- 
ter fair 
Continued still her hospitable cares; 
But that part of the coast being shoal and 
bare. 
And rough with reefs which ran out many a 

mile. 
His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 



And there he went ashore without delay. 

Having no custom-house nor quarantine 
To ask him awkward questions on the way 
About the time and place where he had 
been : 
He left his ship to be hove down next day, 

With orders to the people to careen ; 
So that all hands were busy beyond measure. 
In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treas- 
ure. 

XXI. 
Arriving at the summit of a hill 

Which overlooked the white walls of his 
home. 
He stopped. — What singular emotions fill 
Their bosoms who have been induced to 
roam ! 
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, 
And bring our hearts back to their starting- 
post. 

* * * * * 



792 



DON JUAN. 



XXVII. 

He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, 
The distant dog-bark; and perceived be- 
tween 

The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun 
The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms (in the East all arm) — and various 
dyes 

Of colored garbs, as bright as butterflies. 



And as the spot where they appear he nears. 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling. 

He hears — alas! no music of the spheres, 
But an unhallowed, earthly sound of fid- 
dling! 

A melody which made him doubt his ears. 
The cause being past his guessing or un- 
riddling ; 

A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, 

A most unoriental roar of laughter. 



And still more nearly to the place advancing. 
Descending rather quickly the declivity. 

Through the waved branches, o'er the green- 
sward glancing, 
'Midst other indications of festivity. 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 

To which the Levantines are very partial. 



And further on a group of Grecian girls, 
The first and tallest her white kerchief wav- 
ing, 
Were strung together like a row of pearls, 
Linked hand in hand, and dancing; each 
too having 
Down her white neck long floating auburn 
curls — 
(The least of which would set ten poets 
raving) ; 
Their leader sang — and bounded to her song. 
With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 

And here, assembled cross-legged round their 
trays, 

Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze. 

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 

Above them their dessert grew on its vine, 
The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er 
Dropped in their laps, scarce plucked, their 
mellow store. 



XXXII. 

A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 
There wreathe his venerable horns with 
flowers ; 
While peaceful as if still an unweaned lamb. 

The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
His sober head, majestically tame. 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 
Yielding to their small hands, draws back 
again. 

XXXIII. 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic 
cheeks. 
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long 
tresses. 
The gesture which enchants, the eye that 
speaks 
The innocence which happy childhood 
blesses, 
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 
So that the philosophical beholder 
Sighed, for their sakes — that they should e'er 
grow older. 

XXXIV. 

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
To a sedate gray circle of old smokers 
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 
Of charms to make good gold and cure bad 
ails. 
Of rocks bewitched that open to the knock- 
ers. 
Of magic ladies who, by one sole act. 
Transformed their lords to beasts (but that's 
a fact) . 

XXXV. 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 
For the imagination or the senses, 

Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the 
Persian, 
All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; 

But Lambro saw all these things with aver- 
sion. 
Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 

Dreading that climax of all human ills, 

The inflammation of his weekly bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner — 

A day of gold from out an age of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner; 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a 
siren, 
That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner ; 

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 

Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 



DOM yVAM. 



n^% 



XXXVII. 

He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter — had not sent before to ad- 
vise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirred; 

And long he paused to re-assure his eyes, 

In fact much more astonished than delighted, 

To find so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 
That a report (especially the Greeks) 

Avouched his death (such people never die). 
And put his house in mourning several 
weeks, — 

But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 
The bloom, too, had returned to Haidee's 
cheeks. 

Her tears, too, being returned into their fount. 

She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and 
fiddling, 
Which turned the isle into a place of plea- 
sure. 
The servants all were getting drunk or 
idling, 
A life which made them happy beyond 
measure. 
Her father's hospitality seemed middling. 
Compared with what Haid^e did with his 
treasure ; 
'Twas wonderful how things went on improv- 
ing, 
While she had not one hour to spare from 
loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast 
He flew into a passion, and in fact 

There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 
Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act. 

The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 
To teach his people to be more exact, 

And that, proceeding at a very high rate, 

He showed the \0y2X penchants of a pirate. 

XLI. 

You're wrong. — He was the mildest man- 
nered man 

That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat ; 
With such true breeding of a gentleman, 

You never could divine his real thought ; 
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 

Gird more deceit within a petticoat; 
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 
He was so great a loss to good society. 



XLI I. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner tray, 

Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way. 
Boded no good, whatever it expressed, 

He asked the meaning of this holiday; 
The vinous Greek to whom he had ad- 
dressed 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, filled up a glass of wine, 



And without turning his facetious head, 
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 
" Talking's dry work, I have no time to 
spare." 

A second hiccuped, " Our old master's dead, 
You'd better ask our mistress who's his heir." 

" Our mistress ! " quoth a third : " Our mis- 
tress ! — pooh ! — 

You mean our master — not the old, but new." 

XLIV. 

These rascals, being new comers, knew not 
whom 
They thus addressed — and Lambro's vis- 
age fell — 
And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 

Passed, but he strove quite courteously to 
quell 
The expres'sion, and endeavoring to resume 

His smile, requested one of them to tell 
The name and quality of his new patron. 
Who seemed to have turned Haidee into a 
matron. 

XLV. 

" I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 
He is, nor whence he came — and little care ; 
But this I know, that this roast capon's fat. 
And that good wine ne'er washed down 
better fare ; 
And if you are not satisfied with that, 

Direct your questions to my, neighbor 
there ; 
He'll answer all for better or for worse. 
For none likes more to hear himself con- 
verse." 

XLVI. 

I said that Lambro was a man of patience. 
And certainly he showed the best of breed- 
ing, 
Which scarce even France, the paragon of 
nations. 
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding ; 
He bore these sneers against his near relations, 

His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, 
The insults, too, of every servile glutton. 
Who all the time was eating up his mutton, 
***** 



m 



DOM yVAM. 



XLIX. 
He asked no further questions, and proceeded 

On to the house, but by a private way, 
So that the few wlio met him hardly heeded, 

So httle they, expected him that day ; 
If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 

For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, 
But certainly to one deemed dead returning, 
This revel seemed a curious mode of mourn- 
ing. 



LII. 

He entered in the house — his home no more, 
i-or without hearts' there is no home ; — and 
felt 
The solitude of passing his own door 

Without a welcome : there he long had 
dwelt. 
There his few peaceful days Time had swept 
o'er. 
There his worn bosom and keen eye would 
melt 
Over the innocence of that sweet child. 
His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 



LXI. 

Old Lambro passed unseen a private gate. 
And stood within his hall at eventide; 

Meantime the lady and her lover sate 
At wassail in their beauty and their pride : 

An ivory inlaid table spread with state 

Before them, and fair slaves on every side ; 

Gems, gold, and silver, formed the service 
mostly. 

Mother of pearl and coral the less costly. 

LXII. 
The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 
Lamb and pistachio nuts — in short, all 
meats. 
And saffron soups, and sweetbreads ; and the 
tishes 
Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
Drest to a Sybarite's most pampered wishes ; 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice. 
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it 
best for use. 

LXIII. 

These were ranged round, each in its crystal 
ewer, 
And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the 
repast, 
And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 

In small fine China cups, came in at last; 
Gold cups of filigree made to secure 
The hand firom burning underneath them 
placed, 



Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were 

boiled 
Up with the coffee, which (I think) they 

spoiled. 

LXIV. 

The hangings of the room were tapestry, 
made 

Of velvet panels, each of different hue,. 
And thick with damask flowers of silk mlaid ; 

And round them ran a yellow border too ; 
The upper border, richly wrought, displayed, 

Embroidered delicately o'er with blue, 
Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 
From poets, or the moralists their betters. 



Lxvn. 

Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, bordered w'th pale blue ; 
Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
Of the apartment — and appeared quite 
new; 
The velvet cushions (for a throne more 
meet) — 
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre 
grew 
A sun embossed in gold, whose rays of tissue, 
Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 

LXVIII. 

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 
Had done their work of splendor; Indian 
mats 
And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to 
stain. 
Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and 
cats, 
And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, 
that gain 
Their bread as ministers and favorites- • 
(that's 
1 o say, by degradation) — mingled there 
As plentiful as in a court, or fair. 

LXIX. 

There was no want of lofty .mirrors, and 
The tables, most of ebony inlaid 

With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 
Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods 
made. 

Fretted with gold or silver: — by command, 
The greater part of these were ready spread 

With viands and sherbets in ice ■ — and wine — 

Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 



Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 
She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yel- 
low; 
Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 



DON JUAN. 



795 



'Neath which her breast heaved like a little 
billow ; 
With buttons formed of pearls as large as peas, 
All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fel- 
low, 
And the striped white gauze baracan that 

bound her, 
Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flowed 
round her. 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasped each lovely 
arm, 

Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 
That the hand stretched and shut it without 
harm, 

The limb which it adorned Its only mould ; 
So beautiful — its very shape would charm. 

And clinging as if loath to lose its hold, 
The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 
That e'er by precious metal was held in. 

LXXII. 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 

A like gold bar above her instep rolled. 
Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on 
her hand ; 
Her hair was starred with gems ; her veil's 
fine fold 
Below her breast was fastened with a band 
Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce 
be told ; 
Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furled 
About the prettiest ankle in the world. 

LXXIII. 

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
Flowed like an Alpine torrent which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light, — and would con- 
ceal 
Her person if allowed at large to run, 

And still they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 

Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught 
began 

To offer his young pinion as her fan. 

LXXIV. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
The very air seemed lighter from her eyes. 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies. 

And pure as Psyche e'er she grew a wife — 
Too pure even for the purest human ties; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It would not be idolatry to kneel. 



Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were 
tinged 
( It is the country's custom), but in vain ; 



For those large black eyes were so blackly 
fringed, 
The glossy rebels mocked the jetty stain. 
And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
Her nails were touched with henna; but 
again 
The power of art was turned to nothing, for 
They could not look more rosy than before. 

LXXVI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair ; 

She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 
On mountain tops more heavenly white than 
her. 

The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
She was so like a vision ; I might err, 

But Shakspeare also says 'tis very silly 

" To gild refined gold, or paint the Hly." 

LXXVI I. 
Juan had on a shawl of black and gold. 

But a white baracan, and so transparent 
The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
Like small stars through the milky way ap- 
parent : 
His turban, furled in many a graceful fold. 

An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in't 
Surmounted, as its clasp, a glowing crescent, 
Whose rays shone ever trembling, but inces- 
sant. 

LXXVIII, 
And now they were diverted by their suite, 
Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a 
poet, 
Which made their new establishment com- 
plete ; 
The last was of great fame, and liked to show 
it; 
His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
And for his theme — he seldom sung below 

it, 
He being paid to satirize or flatter. 
As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 

LXXIX. 

He praised the present, and abused the past, 
Reversing the good custom of old days. 

An Eastern anti-jacobin at last 

He turned, preferring pudding to no praise — 

For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
By his seeming independent in his lays. 

But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha 

With truth like Souihey, and with verse like 
Crash aw. 

LXXX. 

He was a man who had seen many changes. 
And always changed as true as any needle ; 

His polar star being one which rather ranges, ' 
And not the fixed — he knew the way to 
wheedle ; 



796 



DON yUAN. 



So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 
And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd 
ill). 
He lied with such a fervor of intention — 
There was no doubt he earned his laureate 
pension. 

LXXXI, 

But he had genius, — when a turncoat has it, 

The " Vates irritabilis " takes care 
That without notice few full moons shall pass it ; 
Even good men like to make the public 
stare : — 
But to my subject — let me see — what was 
it? — 
Oh ! — the third canto — and the pretty 
pair — 
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, 

and mode 
Of living in their insular abode. 

LXXXII. 

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 
In company a very pleasant fellow. 
Had been the favorite of full many a mess 
Of men, and made them speeches when half 
mellow ; 
And though his meaning they could rarely 
guess. 
Yet still they deigned to hiccup or to bellow 
The glorious meed of popular applause, 
Of which the first ne'er knows the second 
cause. 

LXXXIII. 
But now being lifted into high society, 

And having picked up several odds and ends 
Of free thoughts in his travels for variety, 

He deemed, being in a lone isle, among 
friends, 
That without any danger of a riot, he 

Might for long lying make himself amends; 
And singing as he sung in his warm youth, 
Agree to a short armistice with truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He had travelled 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, 
and Franks, 
And knew the self-loves of the different na- 
tions ; 
And having lived with people of all ranks. 
Had something ready upon most occa- 
sions — 
Which got him a few presents and some 
thanks. 
He varied with some skill his adulations ; 
To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 
Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus, usually, when he was asked to sing. 
He gave the different nations something 
national ; 



'Twas all the same to him — " God save the 
king," 
Or " Qa ira" according to the fashion all : 
His muse made increment of any thing. 
From the high lyric down to the low 
rational : 
If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 
Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 



In France, for instance, he would write a 
chanson ; 
In England a six canto quarto tale; 
In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on 
The last war — much the same in Portugal ; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on 
Would be old Goethe's — (See what says 
de Stael) ; 
In Italy, he'd ape the " Trecentisti ; " 
In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like 
this t'ye : 

I. 
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet. 
But all, except their sun, is set. 



The Scian and the Teian muse. 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 



The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; 

For standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 



A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set where were they ? 



And where are they ? and where art thou, 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 



PON yUAN. 



797 



'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race. 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

7- 
Must tve but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 



What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one arise, — w^e come, we come! ' 
'Tis but the Hving who are dumb. 



In vain — in vain : strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine I 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
■Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answ ers each bold Bacchanal ! 



You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You liave the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 



The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore : 



And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 



Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
Tliey have a king who buys and sells : 

In native swords, and native ranks. 
The only hope of courage dwells; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 

Would break your shield, however broad. 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But gazing on each glowing maid. 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

i6. 
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 

Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die: 
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 



CI. 
T'our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves 
gone. 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all re- 
tired; 
The Arab lore and poet's song were done. 

And every sound of revelry expired; 
The lady and her lover, left alone. 

The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired ; — 
Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea. 
That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest 
thee! 

CII, 
Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so 
oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. 
While swung the deep bell in the distant 
tower. 
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft. 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air. 
And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with 
prayer. 

cm. 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above I 
Ave Maria I oh that face so fair I 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty 
dove — 



19S 



DON yuAN, 



What though 'tis but a pictured image ? — 

strike — 
That painting is no idol, — 'tis too like. 

CIV. 

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
In nameless print — that I have no devo- 
tion ; 
But set those persons down with me to pray. 
And you shall see who has the properest 
notion 
Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 

My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the 

great Whole, 
Who hath produced, and will receive the 
soul. 

cv. 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed 
o'er. 
To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, 
Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to 

me, 
How have I loved the twilight hour and 
thee! 

CVI. 
The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless 
song. 
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and 
mine. 
And vesper bell's that rose the boughs 
along; 
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair 
throng 
Which learned from this example not to fly 
From a true lover, — shadowed my mind's 
eye. 

CVII. 
Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 

Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabored steer; 
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone 
clings. 



Whate'er our household gods protect ol 
dear, 
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; 
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's 
breast. 

CVIII. 

Soft hour 1 which wakes the wish and mells 
the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
When they from their sweet friends are torn 
apart ; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 
As the far bell of vesper makes him start. 

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; 
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
Ah 1 surely nothing dies but something 
mourns 1 

Cix. 
When Nero perished by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroyed, 
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 

Of nations freed, and the world overjoyed, 

Some hands unseen strewed flowers upon his 

tomb ; 

Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 

ex. 

But I'm digressing; what on earth has Nero, • 

Or any such like sovereign buffoons. 
To do with the transactions of my liero. 
More than such madmen's fellow man — 
the moon's ? 
Sure my invention must be down at zero. 
And I grown one of many " wooden 
spoons " 
Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs 

please 
To dub the last of honors in degrees). 

CXI. 

I feel this tediousness will never do — 
'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down 

(In copying) this long canto into two; 
They'll never find it out, unless I own 

The fact, excepting some experienced few; 
And then as an inprovement 'twill be shown 

I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is 

From Aristotle passim. — See IIoi^tiktj?. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Nothing so difficult as a beginning 
In poesy, unless perhaps the end ; 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 



The race, he sprains a wing, and down we 
tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurled from heaven for 
sinning; 



DON JUAN. 



799 



Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too 

far, 
Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 

II. 
But Time, which brings all beings to their 
level. 
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 
Man, — and, as we hope, — perhaps the devil, 

That neither of their intellects are vast : 
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins 
revel. 
We know not this — the blood flows on too 
fast; 
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 
We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

III. 
As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
And wished that others held the same 
opinion ; 
They took it up when my days grew more 
mellow. 
And other minds acknowledged my domin- 
ion : 
Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 

Leaf," and Imagination droops her pinion, 
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 
'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 

Itself to apathy, for we must steep 
Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring, 

Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep : 
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; 
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 



Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the land, 

And trace it in this poem every line : 
I don't pretend that I quite understand 

My own meaning when I would be ve7-y fine; 
But the fact is that I have nothing planned, 

Unless it were to be a moment merry, 

A novel word in my vocabulary. 



To the kind reader of our sober clime 
This way of writing will appeaf exotic ; 

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme. 
Who sang when chivalry was more Quix- 
otic, 

And revelled in the fancies of the time. 

True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, 
kings despotic ; 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 

I choose a modern subject as more meet. 



vn. 
How- I have treated it, I do not know ; 

Perhaps no better than they liavc treated me 
Who have imputed such designs as show 

Not what they saw, but what they wished to 
see ; 
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so ; 

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free. 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear. 
And tells me to resume my story here. 

VIII. 
Young Juan and his lady-love were left 

To their own hearts' most sweet society ; 
Even. Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 
With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; 
he 
Sighed to behold them of their hours bereft 
Though foe to love ; and yet they could not 
be 
Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 
Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 
Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to 
fail; 
The blank gray was not made to blast their 
hair, 
But like the climes that know nor snow nor 
hail 
They were all summer : lightning might as- 
sail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 
A long and snake-like life of dull decay 
Was not for them — they had too little clay. 

X. 

They were alone once more ; for them to be 
Thus was another Eden ; they were never 

Weary, unless when separate : the tree 

Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Dammed from its fountain — the child from 
the knee 
And breast maternal weaned at once for 
ever, — 

Would wither less than these two torn apart ; 

Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 

XI. 

The heart — which may be broken : happy 
they ! 
Thrice fortunate ! who of that fragile mould, 
The precious porcelain of human clay. 
Break with the first fall : they can ne'er be- 
hold 
The long year linked with heavy day on day. 
And all which must be borne, and never 
told ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 



800 



DON yUAN. 



" Whom the gods love die young," was said 
of yore, 
And many deaths do they escape by this : 
The death of friends, and that which slays 
even more — 
The death of friendship, love, youth, all 
that is, 
Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
Awaits at last even those who longest miss 
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early 

grave 
Which men weep over may be meant to save. 



Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead. 
The heavens, and earth, and air, seemed 
made for them : 
They found no fault with Time, save that he 
fled. 
They saw not in themselves aught to con- 
demn. 
Each was the other's mirror, and but read 

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem. 
And knew such brightness was but the re- 
flection 
Of their exchanging glances of affection. 

XIV. 
The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
The least glance better understood than 
words, 
Which still said all, and ne'er could say too 
much; 
A language, too, but like to that of birds, 
Known but to them, at least appearing such 

As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 
Sweet playful phrases, which would seem 

absurd 
To those who have ceased to hear such, or 
ne'er heard. 

XV. 
All these were theirs, for they were children 
still. 
And children still they should have ever 
been ; 
They were not made in the real world to fill 

A busy character in the dull scene, 
But like two beings born from out a rill, 
A nympli and her beloved, all unseen 
To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 
And never know the weight of human hours. 



XXVIII. 
They should have lived together deep in 
woods, 
Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 
Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 
Called social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, 
and Care : 



How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 

The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 
The eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 
Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below. 



XXX. 

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, 
The mystical usurper of the mind — 

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 
Good to the soul which we no more can 
bind; 

Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be) 

Senseless to feeU and with sealed eyes to see. 

XXXI. 

She dreamed of being alone on the sea-shore, 
Chained to a rock ; she knew not how, but 
stir 
She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threat- 
ening her; 
And o'er her upper lip they seemed to pour, 
Until she sobbed for breath, and soon they 
were 
Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and 

high — 
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not 
die. 

XXXII. 
Anon — she was released, and then she strayed 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet. 
And stumbled almost every step she made; 

And something rolled before her in a sheet, 
Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid: 
' Twas white and indistinct, nor stopped to 
meet 
Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and 

grasped. 
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasped. 

XXXIII. 

The dream changed : — in a cave she stood, 
its walls 
Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 
Of ages on its water-fretted halls. 
Where waves might wash, and seals might 
breed and lurk ; 
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
Of her black eyes seemed turned to tears 
and mirk 
The sharp rocks looked below each drop 

they caught. 
Which froze to marble as it fell, — she thought. 

XXXIV. 

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 
Pale as the foam that frothed on his dead 
brow 



DON JUAN. 



801 



Which she essayed in vain to clear, (how 
sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seemed they 
now!) 
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 
Of his quenched heart ; and the sea dirges 
low 
Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song. 
And that brief dream appeared a life too long. 

XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 

Faded, or altered into something new — 
Like to her father's features, till each trace 
More like and like to Lambro's aspect 
grew — 
With all his keen worn look and Grecian 
grace ; 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view ? 
Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets 

she there ? 
'Tis — 'tis her father's — fixed upon the pair! 

XXXVI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell. 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

Him whom she deemed a habitant where 
dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too 
well : 
Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind 

I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek. 
And caught her falling, and from off the wall 

Snatched down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 

Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
Smiled scornfully, and s^id, "Within my 
call, 

A thousand scimitars await the word ; 

Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 

XXXVIII. 

And Haid6e clung around him ; " Juan, 'tis — 
'Tis Lambro — 'tis my father! Kneel with 
me — 

He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes. 
Oh ! dearest father, in this agony 

Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 

That doubt should mingle with my filial joy ? 

Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

XXXIX. 

High and inscrutable the old man stood, 
Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 

Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 
He looked upon her, but gave no reply ; 



Then turned to Juan, in whose cheek the 
blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; 
In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 
On the first foe whom Lambro's call might 
bring. 

XL. 
" Young man, your sword ; " so Lambro once 
more said : 
Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free." 
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with 
dread. 
And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
Replied, " Your blood be then on your own 
head." 
Then looked close to the flint, as if to see 
'Twas fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 
And next proceeded quietly to cock. 



It has a strange quick jar upon the ear. 
That cocking of a pistol, when you know 

A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so ; 

A gentlemanly distance, not too near. 
If you have got a former friend or foe; 

But after being fired at once or twice. 

The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 

XLII. 
Lambro presented, and one instant more 
Had stopped this Canto, and Don Juan's 
breath. 
When Haidee threw herself her boy before ; 
Stern as her sire : " On me," she cried, " let 
death 
Descend — the fault is mine; this fatal shore 
He found — but sought not, I have pledged 
my faith ; 
I love him — I will die with him : I knew 
Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's 
too." 

XLIII. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
And tenderness, and infancy ; but now 

She stood as one who championed humai 
fears — 
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she wooed the 
blow ; 

And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers, 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

A fairer mark ; and with a fixed eye scanned 

Her father's face — but never stopped his hand. 

XLIV. 
He gazed on her, and she on him ; 'twas strange 
How like they looked ! the expression was 
the same ; 
Serenely savage, with a little change 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 
For she, too, was as one who could avenge, 



802 



DON JUAN. 



If cause should be — a lioness, though tame, 
Her father's blood before her father's face 
Boiled up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 

I said they were alike, their features and 
Their stature, differing but in sex and years ; 

Even to the delicacy of their hand 
There was resemblance, such as true blood 
wears ; 

And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
In fixed ferocity, when joyous tears. 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed 
both. 

Show what the passions are in their full growth. 

XLVI. 

The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood still, 

And looking on her, as to look her through, 
"Not /," he said, " have sought this stranger's 
ill; 

Not / have made this desolation : few 
Would bear such outrage, and forbear to 
kill; 

But I must do my duty — how thou hast 

Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 

XLVI I. 

" Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, 
His own shall roll before you like a ball ! " 

He raised his whistle, as the word he said. 
And blew, another answered to the call, 

And rushing in disorderly, though led. 

And armed from boot to turban, one and all, 

Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; 

He gave the word, — " Arrest or slay the 
Frank." 

XLVIII. 

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
His daughter; while compressed within his 
clasp, 
'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 

In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — 
His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 

Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, 
The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 
Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut 
through. 

XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
The third, awary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
His own well in ; so well, ere you could 
look. 

His man was floored, and helpless at his 
foot. 
With the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on th:» arm, the otlier on the head. 



And then they bound him where he fell, and 
bore 
Juan from the apartment : with a sign 
Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 
Where lay some ships which were to sail at 
nine. 
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
Until they reached some galliots, placed in 
line; 
On board of one of these, and under hatches, 
They stowed him, with strict orders to the 
watches. 

LI. 

The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: 

A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 
Handsome and young, enjoying all the 
present, 

Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent, 

Wounded and chained so that he cannot 
move. 

And all because a lady fell in love. 

LIT. 

Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, 
Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, 
green tea 1 

Than whom Cassandra was not more pro- 
phetic; 
For if my pure libations exceed three, 

I feel my heart become so sympathetic. 
That I must have recourse to black Bohea : 

'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious. 

For tea and coffee leave us much more serious, 

LIII. 

Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac ! 

Sweet Na'iad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack. 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill ? 
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack 

(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 



I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — 
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely 
wounded ; 
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
Of those with which his Haidee's bosom 
bounded ! 
She was not one to weep, and rave, and 
chafe. 
And then give way, subdued because sur- 
rounded ; 
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
Where ail is Eden, or a wilderness. 



DON JUAN. 



803 



LV. 

There the large olive rains its amber store 
In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, 
and fruit, 

Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er ; 
But there, too, many a poison-tree has root, 

And midnit^ht listens to the lion's roar, 

And long, long deserts scorch the camel's 
foot. 

Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan ; 

And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 



LVI. 
Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 

Her human clay is kindled; full of power 
For good or evil, burning from its birth. 
The Moorish blood partakes the planet's 
hour, 
And like the soil beneath it will bring forth : 
Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's 
dower ; 
But her large dark eye showed deep Passion's 

force. 
Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 

LVII. 

Her daughter, tempered with a milder ray, 
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and 
fair, 

Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air. 

Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
But overwrought with passion and despair. 

The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, 

Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 

LVI 1 1. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore. 
And he himself o'ermastered and cut down ; 

His blood was running on the very floor 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 

Thus much she viewed an instant and no 
more, — 
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive 
groan ; 

On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar felled. 

LIX. 

A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
Were dabbled with the deep blood which 
ran o'er ; 
And her head drooped as when the lily lies 
O'ercharged with rain : her summoned 
handmaids bore 
Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
Of herbs and cordials they produced their 
store, 
But she defied all means they could employ, 
Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 



LX. 

Days lay she in that state unchanged, though 
chill — 
With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
She had no pulse, but death seemed absent 
still ; 
No hideous sign proclaimed her surely 
dead; 
Corruption came not in each mind to kill 

All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred 
New thoughts of life, for it seemed full of 

soul — 
She had so much, earth could nor claim the 
whole. 

LXI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
When exquisitely chiselled, still lay there, 

But fixed as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair ; 

O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes. 
And ever-dying Gladiator's air. 

Their energy like life forms all their fame. 

Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 

LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake. 

Rather the dead, for life seemed something 

■ new, 
A strange sensation which she must partake 

Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 

Lay at her heart, vv'hose earliest beat still 
true 
Brought back the sense of pain without the 

cause. 
For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

LXIII. 

She looked on many a face with vacant eye, 
On many a token without knowing what ; 
She saw them watch her without asking why, 
And recked not who around her pillow 
sat; 
Not speechless, though she spoke not ; not a 
sigh 
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and 
quick chat 
Were tried in vain by those who served ; she 

gave 
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 

LXIV. 

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; 
Her father watched, she turned her eyes 
away ; 
She recognized no being, and no spot 

However dear or cherished in their day; 
They changed from room to room, but all 
forgot, 
Gentle, but without memory she lay ; 



804 



DON JUAN. 



At length those eyes, which they would fain 

be weaning 
Back to old thoughts, waxed full of fearful 
meaning. 

LXV. 
And then a slave bethought her ot a harp; 
The harper came, and tuned his instru- 
ment; 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
Then to the wall she turned as if to warp 
Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart 
re-sent ; 
And he begun a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

LXVI. 
Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
In time to his old tune; he changed the 
theme, 
And sung of love; the fierce name struck 
through all 
Her recollection ; on her flashed the dream 
Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 

To be so being ; in a gushing stream 
The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded 

brain, 
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in 
rain. 

LXVII. 

Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too 
quick, 
And whirled her brain to madness; she 
arose 
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, 

And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek. 
Although her paroxysm drew towards its 
close ; — 
Hers was a phrensy which disdained to rave. 
Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 
Yet she betrayed at times a gleam of sense ; 
Nothing could make her meet her father's 
face. 
Though on all other things with looks intense 
She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 
Availed for either ; neither change of place. 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seemed gone for 
ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she withered thus ; at 
last. 
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
A parting pang, the spirit from her past: 
And they who watched her nearest could 
not know 
The very instant, till the change that cast 



Her sweet face into shadow, dull and 

slow, 
Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the 

black — 
Oh! to possess such lustre — and then lack! 

LXX. 

She died, but not alone ; she held within 
A second principle of life, which might 

Have dawned a fair and sinless child of sin; 
But closed its little being without light. 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie withered with one 
blight ; 

In vain the dews of heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

Lxxr. 
Thus lived — thus died she; never more oni 
her 

Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not ( 
made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to 
bear. 

Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth : her days and pleasures were 

Brief,_but delightful — such as had not staid i 

Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. 

LXXII. 

That isle is now all desolate and bare, 

Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away; 

None but her own and father's grave is there, 
And nothing outward tells of human clay; 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair. 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
Sighs o'er her name ; and many an islander 

With her sire's story makes the night less long ; 
Valor was his, and beauty dwelt with her : 

If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
A heavy price must all pay who thus err, 

In some shape ; let none think to fly the dan- 
ger, 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows 
too sad, 

And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf; 
I don't much like describing people mad. 

For fear of seeming rather touched myself— 
Besides, I've no more on this head to add; 

And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 
We'll put about, and try another tack 
With Juan, left half-killed some stanzas back. 



DON yVAN. 



805 



LXXV. 

Wounded and fettered, " cabined, cribbed, 
confined," 
Some days and nighiii elapsed before that he 
Could altogetiier call the past to mind; 

And when he did, he found himself at sea, 
Sailing six knots an hour befoie the wind ; 

The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 
Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 
But now was not much pleased with Cape 
Sigaeum. 

LXXVI. 

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
(Flanked by the Hellespont, and by the sea) 

Entombed the bravest of the brave, Achilles ; 
They say so — (Bryant says the contrary) : 

And further downward, tall and towering still, 
is 
The tumulus — of whom ? Heaven knows ; 
't may be 

Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus ; 

All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 

LXXVII. 

High barrows, without marble, or a name, 
A vast, untilled, and mountain-skirted plain, 

And Ida in the distance, still the same. 
And old Scamander, (if 'tis he) remain; 

The situation seems still formed for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease; but where I sought for Ilion's 
walls, 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 

LXXVIII. 

Troops of untended horses ; here and there 
Some little hamlets, with new names un- 
couth ; 
Some shepherds, (unlike Paris,) led to stare 

A moment at the European youth 
Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings 
bear; 
A Turk, with beads in hand, a pipe in 
mouth. 
Extremely taken with his own religion, 
Are what I found there — but the devil a 
Phrygian. 

LXXIX. 

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 

From his dull cabin, found himself a slave ; 
Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'ershadowed there by many a hero's 
grave ; 
Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce 
could urge 
A few brief questions; and the answers 
gave 
No very satisfactory information 
About his past or present situation. 



LXXX. 

He saw some fellow captives, who appeared 
To be Italians, as they were in fact; 

From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 
Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 

In Sicily — all singers, duly reared 

In their vocation; had not been attacked 

In sailing from Livorno by the pirate. 

But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 



By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
Juan was told about their curious case ; 

For although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face; 

The little fellow really looked quite hearty. 
And bore him with some gaiety and grace. 

Showing a much more reconciled demeanor 

Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 



In a feW words he told their hapless story. 
Saying, " Our Machiavelian impresario. 

Making a signal off some promontory. 

Hailed a strange brig; Corpo di Caio 
Mario ! 

We were transferred on board her in a hurry. 
Without a single scudo of salario ; 

But if the Sultan has a taste for song. 

We will revive our fortunes before long." 



XC. 

Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 
Was interrupted by the pirate crew. 

Who came at stated moments to invite all 
The captives back to their sad berths ; each 
threw 

A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright 
all 
From the blue skies derived a double blue. 

Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) 

And then went down the hatchway one by one. 

XCI. 
They heard next day — that in the I^rda- 
nelles, 

Waiting for his Sublimity's firman. 
The most imperative of sovereign spells. 

Which everybody does without who can. 
More to secure them in their naval cells, 

Lady to lady, well as man to man. 
Were to be chained and lotted out per couple, 
For the slave market of Constantinople. 



XCIV. 

Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred within the March of old Ancona, 
With eyes that looked into the very soul 



806 



DON yUAJ^. 



(Andother chief points of a" belladonna"), 
Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 

And through her clear brunette complexion 
shone a 
Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 
Especially when added to the power. 

XCV. 

But all that power was wasted upon him, 
For sorrow o'er each sense held stern com- 
mand ; 
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 
And though thus chained, as natural her 
hand 
Touched his, nor that — nor any handsome 
limb 
(And she had some not easy to withstand) 
Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel 

brittle ; 
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 

XCVI. 

No matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire. 
But facts are facts : no knight could be more 
true. 

And firmer faith no ladye-love desire; 
We will omit the proofs, save one or two: 

'Tis said no one in hand " can hold a fire 
By thought of frosty Caucasus ; " but few, 

I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 

Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 

XCVII. 

Here I might enter on a chaste description. 
Having withstood temptation in my youth, 

But hear that several people take exception 
At the first two books having too much truth ; 

Therefore I'll make Don Juan leave the ship 
soon. 
Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 

Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel 
is 

To pass, than those two cantos into famihes, 

XCVIII. 

'Tis ^1 the same to me ; I'm fond of yielding, 
Ana therefore leave them to the purer page 

Of Smollett, Prior, Ai iosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange things for so correct an 
age; 

I once had great alacrity in wielding 
My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, 

And recollect the time when all this cant 

"Would have provoked remarks which now it 
shan't. 



CXIII. 
But to the narrative : — The vessel bound 

With slaves to sell off in the capital, 
After the usual process, might be found 

At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and 
sound. 
Were landed in the market, one and all, 
And there with Georgians, Russians, and Cir- 
cassians, 
Bought up for different purposes and passions, 

CXIV. 

Some went off dearly ; fifteen hundred dollars 
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 
Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colors 
Had decked her out in all the hues of 
heaven: 
Her sale sent home some disappointed 
bawlers. 
Who bade on till the hundreds reached 
eleven ; 
But when the offer went beyond, they knew 
'Twas for the Sultan, and at once withdrew. 

cxv. 

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 
Which the West Indian market scarce 
would bring ; 

Though Wilberforce, at last has made it twice 
What 'twas ere Abolition ; and the thing 

Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 
Is always much more splendid than a king : 

The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity, 

Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXVI. 
But for the destiny of this young troop. 

How some were bought by pachas, some by 
Jews, 
How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
And others rose to the command of crews 
As renegadoes ; while in hapless group. 

Hoping no very old vizier might choose. 
The females stood, as one by one they picked 

'em. 
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim : 

CXVI I. 
All this must be reserved for further sonsf; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant 
(Because this Canto has become too long). 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present ; 
I'm sensible redundancy is wrong, 

Butcouldnotforthe museofme put less in't: 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is called in Ossian the fifth "Duan. 



IX)N yUAN. 



807 



CANTO TFIE FIFTH. 



kVHEN amatory poets sing their loves 
In liquid lines niellitluously bland, 

\nd pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her 
doves, 
They little think what mischief is in hand; 

The greater their success the worse it proves, 
As Ovid's verse may give to understand ; 

Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due 
severity, 

[s the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 

II. 
[ therefore do denounce all amorous writing, 

Except in such a way as not to attract ; 
Plain — simple — short, and by no means in- 
viting. 

But with a moral to each error tacked. 
Formed rather for instructing than delighting, 

And with all passions in their turn attacked : 
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill. 
This poem will become a moral model. 

III. 
The European with the Asian shore 

Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream 
Here and there studded with a seventy-four; 

Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 
The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar ; 

The twelve isles, and the more than I could 
dream. 
Far less describe, present the very view 
Which charmed the charming Mary Montagu. 

IV. 

I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 
For once it was a magic sound to me ; 

And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 
Where I beheld what never was to be ; 

All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, 
A spell fi-om which even yet I'm not quite 
free : 

But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 

Which must not be pathetically told. 



The wind swept down the Euxine,and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades ; 

'Tis a grand sight from off " the Giant's 
Grave " 
To watch the progress of those rolling seas 

Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease ; 

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in. 

Turns up more dangerous breakers than the 
Euxine. 



VI. 



'Tvvas a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 
When nights are equxil, but not so the davs ; 
The Parca; then cut short the further sjjin- 
ning 
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests 
raise 
The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
In all, who o'er the great deep take their 
ways : 
They vow to amend their lives, and yet they 

don't; 
Because if drowned, they can't — if spared, 
they won't. 

VII. 
A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, 
And age, and sex, were in the market 
ranged : 
Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 
Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly 
changed. 
All save the blacks seemed jaded with vexa- 
tion, 
From friends, and home, and freedom far 
estranged ; 
The negroes more philosophy displayed, — 
Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flayed. 



Juan was juvenrJe, and" thus was full. 

As most at his age are, of hope, and health ; 

Yet I must own, he looked a little dull, 
And now and then a tear stole down by 
stealth ; 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down ; and then the loss of 
wealth, 

A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 

To be put up for auction amongst Tai tars, 

IX. 

Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless. 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene, : 

His figure, and the splendor of his dress, 
Of which some gilded remnants still were 
seen, 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 

And then, though pale, he was so very hand- 
some ; 

And then — they calculated on his ransom. 

X. 

Like a backgammon board the place was 
dotted 
With whites and blacks, in groups on show 
for sale. 



DOM yUAN. 



Though rather more irregularly spotted : 
Some bought the jet, while others chose the 
pale. 
It chanced amongst the other people lotted, 

A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 
With resolution in his dark gray eye, 
Next Juan stood, till some might choose to 
buy. 

XI. 
He had an English look ; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy. 
Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown 
hair, 
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or 
study, 
An open brow a little marked with care : 

One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 
And there he stood with sucii sang-froid, that 

greater 
Could scarce be shown even by a mere spec- 
tator. 

XII. 
But seeing at his elbow a mere lad. 
Of a high spirit evidently, though 
At present weighed down by a doom which 
had 
O'erthrown even men, he soon began to 
show 
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 
Lot of so young a partner in the woe. 
Which for himself he seemed to deem no 

worse 
Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 

XIII. 
"My boy!" — said he, " amidst this motley 
crew 
Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what 
not. 
All ragamuffins differing but in hue, 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot. 
The only gentlemen seem I and you ; 

So let us be acquainted as we ought: 
If I could yield you any consolation, 
'Twould give me pleasure. — Pray, what is 
your nation ? " 

XIV. 
When Juan answered — " Spanish !" he re- 
plied, 
" I thought, in fact, you could not be a 
Greek ; 
Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed: 

Fortune has played you here a pretty freak. 

But that's her way with all men, till they're 

tried ; 

But never mind, — she'll turn, perhaps, next 

week ; 

She has served me also much the same as 

you, 
Except that I have found it nothing new." 



XV. 
" Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, 
H^'^a/ brought you here ? " — " Oh ! nothin 
very rare — 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — "T 

this doom 
But what conducted, if the question's fair, 
Is that which I would learn." — " I served fc 
some 

Months with the Russian army here ani 

there. 

And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 

A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin. 

XVI. 
" Have you no friends ?" — " I had — but. b 
God's blessing, 
Have not been troubled with them lately 
Now 

I have answered all your questions withou 

pressing. 

And you an equal courtesy should show. 

" Alas ! " said Juan, " 'twere a tale distressing 

And long besides." — " Oh ! if 'tis really sc 

You're right on both accounts to hold you; 

tongue ; 
A sad tale saddens doubly, when 'tis long. 

XVII. 
" But droop not : Fortune at your time of life! 

Although a female moderately fickle. 
Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wifd 

For any length of days in such a pickle. 
To strive, too, with our fate were such a strif ] 

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose th 
sickle : 
Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem the sport of men." 



XXV. 
" But after all, what is our present state ? 

'Tis bad, and may be better — all men's lot 
Most men are slaves, none more so than thi 
great. 
To their own whims and passions, and wha 
not; 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we have got 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart.' 

XXVI. 

Just now a black old neutral personage 
Of the third sex stept up, and peering ove 

The captives seemed to mark their looks ant 
age, 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover. 

Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 

Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 



DON JUAN. 



809 



XXVII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-crea- 
tures ; 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous; some 
by features 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader. 
Some by a place — as tend their years or 
natures ; 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices. 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 

XXVIII. 

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, 
Turned to the merchant, and begun to bid 

First but for one, and after for the pair ; 
They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so 
they did ! 

As though they were in a mere Christian fair 
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 

So that their bargain sounded like a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last they settled into simple grumbling, 
And pulling out reluctant purses, and 

Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
Some down, and weighing others in their 
hand. 

And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling. 
Until the sum was accurately scanned. 

And then the merchant giving change, and 
signing 

Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XL. 
The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 

Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 
Embarked himself and them, and off they 
went thence 
As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
They looked like persons being led to sentence, 
Wondering what next, till the caique was 
brought 
Up in a little creek below a wall 
O'ertopped with cypresses, dark-g^een and tall. 



Here their conductor tapping on the wicket 

Of a small iron door, 'twas opened, and 
He led them onward, first through a low 
thicket 
Flanked by large groves, which towered on 
either hand: 
They almost lost their way, and had to pick 
'it — 
For night was closing ere they came to land. 
The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 
Who rowed off, leaving them without a word. 
* « * ♦ * 



LIV. 
As the black eunuch entered with his brace 

Of purchased infidels, some raised their eyes 
A mi)ment without slackening from their pace ; 

But those who sate, ne'er stirred in any w ise : 
One or two stared the captives in the face, 

Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 
Some nodded to the negro from their station, 
But no one troubled him with conversation. 

LV. 

He leads them through the hall, and, without 
stopping, 
On through a further range of goodly rooms. 
Splendid but silent, save in one, where drop- 
ping. 
A marble fountain echoes through the 
glooms 
Of night, which robe the chamber, or where 
popping 
Some female head most curiously presumes 
To thrust its black eyes through the door or 

lattice, 
As wondering what the devil noise that is. 



LXIV. 

At last they reached a quarter most retired, 

Where echo woke as if from a long slumber ; 
Though full of all things which could be de- 
sired. 
One wondered what to do with such a 
number 
Of articles which nobody required ; 

Here wealth had done its utmost to en- 
cumber 
With furniture an exquisite apartment. 
Which puzzled Nature much to know what 
Art meant. 

LXV. 

It seemed, however, but to open on 
A range or suite of further chambers, which 

Might lead to heaven knows where; but in 
this one 
The movables were prodigally rich ; 

Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon, 

So costly were they ; carpets every stitch 

Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish 

You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 

LXVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning 
A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in 
wonder. 
Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of 
staining. 
As if the milky way their feet was under 
With all its stars ; and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard niched in you' 
der — 



810 



DON JUAN. 



In that remote recess which you may see — 
Or if you don't the fault is not in me, — 

LXVII. 
I wish to be perspicuous ; and the black, 

I say, unlocking the recess, pulled lorth 
A quantity of clothes fit for the back 

C3f any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 
And of variety there was no lack — 

And yet, though I have said there was no 
dearth, — 
He chose himself to point out what he thought 
Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

LXVIII, 

The suit he thought most suitable to each 
Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might 
reach. 
And trousers not so tight that they would 
burst. 
But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 
A shawl, whose folds in Cashmere had been 
nurst. 
Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; 
In short, all things which form a Turkish 
Dandy. 



LXXIII. 

Baba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 
As dress yourself — " and pointed out a suit 

In which a Princess with great pleasure would 
Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute. 

As not being in a masquerading mood. 
Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot ; 

And when the old negro told him to " Get 
ready," 

Replied, " Old gentleman, I'm not a lady." 

LXXIV. 
" What you may be, I neither know nor care," 

Said Baba; " but pray do as I desire: 
I have no more time nor many words to spare." 
"At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 
The cause of this odd travesty ? " — " Forbear," 
Said Baba, " to be curious ; 'twill transpire, 
No doubt, in proper place, and time, and sea- 
son : 
I have no authority to tell the reason." 
***** 

LXXX. 

And now being femininely all arrayed, 

With some small aid from scissors, paint, 
and tweezers. 
He looked in almost all respects a maid, 
And Baba smilingly exclaimed, " You see, 
sirs, 
A perfect transformation here displayed ; 
And now, then, you must come along with 
me, sirs, 



That is — the Lady : " clapping his hand; 

twice. 
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. i 

LXXXI. 

" You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
" Will please to accompany those gentlemer 

To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun. 
Will follow me : no trifling, sir; for when 

I say a thing, it must at once be done. 

What fear you ? think you this a lion's denli 

Why, 'tis a palace ; where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 



XCV. 

In this imperial hall, at distance lay 
Under a canopy, and there reclined 

Quite in a confidential queenly way, I 

A lady ; Baba stopped, and kneeling signec 

To Juan, who though not much used to pray 
Knelt down by instinct, wondering in hij 
mind 

What all this meant : while Baba bowed and 
bended 

His head, until the ceremony ended. 

XCVI. ^ 

The lady rising up with such an air 

As Venus rose with from the wave, on themi 
Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 

Of eyes, which put out each surrounding! 
gem; 
And raising up an arm as moonlight fair. 

She signed to Baba, who first kissed the hemi 
Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low, 
Pointed to Juan, who remained below. 



The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 
Baba retire, which he obeyed in style, 

As if well-used to the retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while, 

He whispered Juan not to be afraid, 
And looking on him with a sort of smile, 

Took leave with such a face of satisfaction. 

As good men wear who have done a virtuous 
action. 

CVIII. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden 
change : 
I know not what might be the lady's thought. 
But o'er her bright brow flashed a tumult 
strange. 
And into her clear cheek the blood was 
brought. 
Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which 
range 
The verge of Heaven; and in her large 
eyes wrought 



DON yUAN. 



811 



K mixture of sensations, might be scanned, 
3f half-voluptuousness and half command. 

CIX. 

Her form had all the softness of her sex, 

Her features all the sweetness of the devil, 
When he put on the cherub to perplex 
Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road 
to evil ; 
The sun himself was scarce more free from 
specks 
Than she from aught at which the eye could 
cavil ; 
Yet, somehow, there was something some- 
where wanting. 
As if she rather ordered than was granting. — 

ex. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 

Was thrown as 'twere about the neck of you, — 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in 
view : 
Our souls at least are free, and 'tis in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obey — 

The spirit in the end will have its way. 

CXI. 

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet ; 

Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a self-will in her small feet. 

As though they were quite conscious of her 
station — 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state (it is the custom of her nation), 
A poniard decked her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven not 
mine!). 

CXII. 

" To hear and to obey " had been from birth 
The law of all around her ; to fulfil 

All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 
Had been her slave's chief pleasure, as her 
will ; 

Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth : 
Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still; 

Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 

We should have found out the " perpetual 
motion." 

CXIII. 

Wh^te'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 

Whate'er she did twt see, if she supposed 
It might be seen, with diligence was sought. 

And when 'twas found straightway the bar- 
gain closed : 
There was no end unto the things she bought, 

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace. 
The women pardoned all except her face. 



Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
Her eye in passing on his way to sale; 

She ordered him directly to be bought. 

And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 

In any kind of mischief to be wrought. 
At all such auctions knew how to prevail : 

She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 

Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 

CXV. 
His youth and features favored the disguise. 
And, should you ask how she, a sultan's 
bride, 
Could risk or compass such strange phanta- 
sies. 
This I must leave sultanas to decide : 
Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
And kings and consorts oft are mystified. 
As we may ascertain with due precision, 
Some by experience, others by tradition. 

CXVI. 

But to the main point, where we have been 
tending: — 
She now conceived all difficulties past. 
And deemed herself extremely condescending 

When, being made her property at last. 
Without moi-e preface, in her blue eyes blend- 
ing 
Passion and power, a glance on him she 
cast. 
And merely saying, " Christian, canst thou 

love ? " 
Conceived that phrase was quite enough to 
move. 



CXXVII. 
" Thou ask'st, if I can love ? be this the proof 
How much I have loved — that I love not 
thee ! 
In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof. 
Were fitter for me : Love is for the hee ! 
I am not dazzled by this splendid roof; 
Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to 
be. 
Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a 

throne. 
And hands obey — our hearts are still our 
own." 



cxxxiv. 
If I said fire flashed from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 
'Twere nothing — for her eyes flashed 
always fire ; 
Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 
I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, 
So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 
For ne'er till now she knew a checked 
desire : 



812 



DON yUAN. 



Even ye who know what a checked woman 

is 
(Enough, God knows!) would fall short of 

this. 

cxxxv. 

Her rage was but a minute's, and 'twas well — 
A moment's more had slain her; but the 
while 

It lasted 'twas like a short glimpse of hell : 
Nought's more sublime than energetic bile, 

Though horrible to see yet grand to tell, 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 

And the deep passions flashing though her 
form 

Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 

CXXXVI. 

A vulgar tempest 'twere to a typhoon 

To match a common fury with her rage, 
And yet she did not want to reach the moon, 
Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal 
page. 
Her anger pitched into a lower tune, 

Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 
Her wish was but to "kill, kill, kill," like 

Lear's, 
And then her thirst for blood was quenched 
in tears. 



His Highness cast around his great black eyes. 
And looking, as he always looked, per- 
ceived 
Juan amongst the damsels in disguise. 

At which he seemed no whit surprised nor 
grieved, 
But just remarked with air sedate and wise. 
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz 
heaved, 
" I see you've bought another girl ; 'tis pity 
That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 

CLVI. 
This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 
The new-bought virgin, made her blush and 
shake ; 



Her comrades, also, thought themselves un- 
done : ' 
Oh ! Mahomet ! that his Majesty should 
take 

Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to' 
one 
Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 

There was a general whisper, toss, and 
wriggle, 

But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. , 

CLVII. 

The Turks do well to shut — at least, some-j 
times — 
The women up — because, in sad reality, 
Their chastity in these unhappy climes 

Is not a thing of that astringent quality 
Which in the North prevents precocious^ 
crimes, 

And makes our snow less pure than ouii 
morality. 
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice. 
Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus in the East they are extremely strict, 
And Wedlock and a Padlock mean the same i 

Excepting only when the former's picked 
It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame; 

Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when pricked : 
But then their own Polygamy's to blame ; 

Why don't they knead two virtuous souls foii 
life 

Into that moral centaur, man and wife ? 

CLIX. 

Thus far our chronicle ; and now we pause 
Though not for want of matter; but 'tis 
time. 
According to the ancient epic laws. 

To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhymes 
Let this fifth canto meet with due applause. 
The sixth shall have a touch of the sub- 
lime; 
Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps 

perhaps 
You'll pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



CANTO THE SIXTH. 



I. 

" There is a tide in the affairs of men 
Which, taken at the flood," — you know the 
rest. 
And most of us have found it now and then ; 
At least we think so, though but few have 
guessed 



The moment, till too late to come again. 
But no doubt every thing is for 

best — 
Of which the surest sign is in 

end : 
When things are at the worst they sometimes 

mend. 



the 
the 



DON JUAN. 



813 



."here is a tide in the affairs of women 
Which, taken at the flood, leads — God 
knows where : 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its current to a hair ; 
^lot all the reveries of Jacob Bchnien 
With its strange whirls and eddies can 
compare ; 
vien with their heads reflect on this and that — 
But women with their hearts on heaven knows 
what. 

III. 

\.nd yet a headlong, headstrong, downright 
she, 
Young, beautiful, and daring — who would 
risk 
\ throne, the world, the universe, to be 

Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 
The stars from out the sky, than not be free 
As are the billows when the breeze is 
brisk — 
Though such a she's a devil (if that there' be 

one) 
Yet she would make full many a Manichean. 



Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset 
By commonest ambition, that when passion 

O'erthrows the same, we readily forget. 
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 

If Anthony be well remembered yet, 
'Tis not his conquests keep his name in 
fashion. 

But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 

Outbalances all Caesar's victories. 



He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 
I wish their years had been fifteen and 
twenty. 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a 
sport — I 
Remember when, though I had no great 
plenty 
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 
Gave what \ had — a heart : as the world 
went, I 
Gave what was worth a world; for worlds 

could never 
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 

VI. 
'Twas the boy's " mite," and, like the "widow's," 
may 
Perhaps be weighed hereafter, if not now ; 
But whether such things do or do not weigh. 
All who have loved, or love, will still allow 
Life has nought like it. God is love, they 
say. 
And Love's a God, or was before the brow 



Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 
Of — but Chronology best knows the years. 

VII. 

We left our hero and third heroine in 
A kind of state more awkward than uncom- 
mon, 

For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 
For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : 

Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 
And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 

Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious. 

Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 

VIII, 
I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 

I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; 
But I detest all fiction even in song. 
And so must tell the truth, howe'er you 
blame it. 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong. 
She thought that her lord's heart (even 
could she claim it) 
Was scarce enougli ; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 



Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, 
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 

For love or breakfast ; private, pleasing, lone, 
And rich with all contrivances which grace 

Those gay recesses: — many a precious stone 
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 

Of porcelain held in the fettered flowers. 

Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 

XCVIII. 
Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble. 
Vied with each other on this costly spot ; 
And singing birds without were heard to 
warble ; 
And the stained glass which lighted this fair 
grot 
Varied each ray ; — but all descriptions garble 

The true effect, and so we had better not 
Be too minute; an outhne is the best, — 
A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 

XCIX. 

And here she summoned Baba, and required 

Don Juan at his hands, and information 
Of what had passed since all the slaves retired, 

And whether he had occupied their station ; 
If matters had been managed as desired. 

And his disguise -with due consideration 
Kept up; and above all, the where and how 
He had passed the night, was what she wished 
to know. 

C. 
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 

To this long catechism of questions, asked 



814 



DON JUAN. 



More easily than answered, — that he had tried 
His best to obey in what he had been tasked ; 
But there seemed something that he wished 
to hide, 
Which hesitation more betrayed than 
masked ; 
He scratched his ear, the infallible resource 
To which embarrassed people have recourse. 



Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 

Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed ; 
She liked quick answers in all conversations ; 
And when she saw him stumbling like a 
steed 
In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones ; 
And as his speech grew still more broken- 
kneed, 
Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 
And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and 
darkle. 

CII. 

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he 
knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 
Her anger, and beseeched she'd hear him 
through — 
He could not help the thing which he re- 
lated : 
Then out it came at length, that to Dudii 
Juan was given in charge, as hath been 
stated ; 
But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 
The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 



The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
The discipline of the whole iiaram bore 

As soon as they reentered their own room, 
For Baba's function stopt short at the door, 

Had settled all ; nor could he then presume 
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 

Without exciting such suspicion as 

Might make the matter still worse than it was. 



He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure 
Juan had not betrayed himself ; in fact 

'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, 
Because a foolish or imprudent act 

Would not alone have made him insecure. 
But ended in his being found out and sacked. 

And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 

Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke. 



This he discreetly kept in the back ground. 
And talked away — and might have talked 
till now 

For any further answer that he found. 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow ; 



Her cheek turned ashes, ears rung, brail 
whirled round, 1 

As if she had received a sudden blow. 

And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast an<! 
chilly l! 

O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily. 



Although she was not of the fainting sort, 

Baba thought she would faint, but there hi{ 

erred — 

It was but a convulsion, which though short 

Can never be described ; we all have heard 

And some of us have felt thus " all amort," 

When things beyond the common have oc 

cur red ; — 

Gulbeyaz proved in that deep agony 

What she could ne'er express— then ho*i 

should I ? 

CVII. 
She stood a moment as a Pythoness 

Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full ..^1 
Of inspiration gathered from distress, -i 

When all the heart-strings like wild horse 
pull 
The heart asunder; — then, as more or less 
Their speed abated or their strength grev 
dull. 
She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees. 
And bowed her throbbing head o'er tremi 
bling knees. 

CVIII. 
Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair 
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow- 
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 

Or rather sofa, ( for it was all pillow, 
A low soft ottoman,) and black despair 
Stirred up and down her bosom like a bill 
low. 
Which rushes to some shore whose shingle; 

check 
Its further course, but must receive its wreck 

cix. 
Her head hung down, and her long hair ii 
stooping 

Concealed her features better than a veil ; 
And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping 

White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 
Would that I were a painter! to be grouping 

All that a poet drags into detail ! 
Oh that my words were colors ! but their tint 
May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints 

ex. 
Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 

And when to hold his tongue, now held it til 
This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to ball 

Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. I 

At length she rose up, and began to walk 

Slowly along the room, but silent still, | 



DON JUAN. 



815 



And her brow cleared, but not her troubled eye ; 
The wind was down, bjut still the sea ran high. 

CXI, 

She stopped, and raised her head to speak 
— but paused, 
And tlien moved on again with rapid pace ; 
Then slackened it, which is the march most 
caused 
By deep emotion: — you may sometimes 
trace 
A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 

By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 
By all the demons of all passions, showed 
Their work even by the way in which he trode. 

CXII. 

Gulbeyaz stopped and beckoned Baba: — 

" Slave ! 
Bring the two slaves ! " she said in a low tone, 
But one which Baba did not like to brave, 
And yet he shuddered, and seemed rather 
prone 
To prove reluctant, and begged leave to crave 
(Though he well knew the meaning) to be 
shown 
What slaves her highness wished to indicate. 
For fear of any error, like the late. 

CXIII. 

" The Georgian and her paramour," replied 
The imperial bride — and added, " Let the 
boat 
Be ready by the secret portal's side : 

You know the rest." The words stuck in her 
throat. 
Despite her injured love and fiery pride ; 

And of this Baba willingly took note. 
And begged by every hair of Mahomet's 

beard 
She would revoke the order he had heard. 

CXIV. 

" To hear is to obey," he said ; "but still, 
Sultana, think upon the consequence : 

It is not that I shall not all fulfil 
Your orders, even in their severest sense ; 

But such precipitation may end ill, 

Even at your own imperative expense : 

I do not mean destruction and exposure, 

In case of any premature disclosure ; 

cxv. 

" But your own feelings. Even should all the 
rest 

Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 
Already many a ouce love-beaten breast 

Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 
You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest, 

And if this violent remedy be tried — 



Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, 
That killing him is not the way to cure you." 

CXVI. 

" What dost thou know of love or feeling ? — 
Wretch 1 
Begone ! " she cried, with kindling eyes — 
" and do 
My bidding 1 " Baba vanished, for to stretch 

His own remonstrance further he well knew 

Might end in acting as his own " Jack Ketch ; " 

And though he wished extremely to get 

through 

This awkward business without harm to others, 

He still preferred his own neck to another's. 

CXVII. 

Away he went then upon his commission, 
Growling and grumbling in good Turkish 
phrase 
Against all women of whate'er condition. 

Especially sultanas and their ways ; 
Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, 

Their never knowing their own mind two 
days. 
The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 
Wliich made him daily bless his own neu- 
trality. 

CXVIII. 

And then he called his brethren to his aid, 
And sent one on a summons to the pair, 

That they must instantly be well arrayed, 
And above all be combed even to a hair. 

And brought before the empress, who had 
made 
Inquiries after them with kindest care : 

At which Dudu looked strange, and Juan silly ; 

But go they must at once, and willl — nill'l. 

CXIX. 

And here I leave them at their preparation 
For the imperial presence, wheiein whether 

Gulbeyaz showed them both commiseratio^i, 
Or got rid of the parties altogether. 

Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
Are things the turning of a hair or feather 

May settle ; but far be't from me to anticipate 

In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

cxx. 

I leave them for the present with good wishes, 
Though doubts of their well doing, to ar- 
range • 

Another part of history ; for the dishes 

Of this our banquet we must sometime? 
change ; 

And trusting Juan may escape the fishes. 
Although his situation now seems strange. 

And scnrce secure, as such digressions arei'xV 

The Muse will take a little tpuch at warfare 



S16 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE SEVENTH. 



Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly 
Around us ever, rarely to alight ? 

There's not a meteor in the polar sky 

Of such transcendent and more fleeting 
flight. 

Chill, and chained to cold earth, we lift on high 
Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 

A thousand and a thousand colors they 

Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 

II. 

And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Borealis, 

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

When we know what all are, we must bewail 
us, 
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime 

To laugh at all things — for I wish to know 

What, after all, are all things — but a show? 

III. 

They accuse me — Me — the present writer of 
The present poem — of — I know not 
what — 
A tendency to under-rate and scoff 

At human power and virtue, and all that; 
And this they say in language rather rough. 
Good God ! I wonder what they would be 
at! 

1 say no more than has been said in Dante's 
Verse, and by Solomon and Cervantes ; 

IV. 

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 

By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 

'Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so — 
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 

Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die. 

But which is best, you know no more than L 

V. 

Socrates said, our only knowledge was 

" To know that nothing could be known ; " 
. a pleasant 

Science enough, which levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, orpresent. 

Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas! 
Declared, with all his grand discoveries re- 
cent. 

That he himself felt only " like a youth 

Picking up shells by the great ocean — Truth," 



VI. 

Ecclesiastes said, "that all is vanity" — 
Most modern preachers say the same, or 
show it 

By their examples of true Christianity: 

In short, all know, or very soon may know 
it; 

And in this scene of all-confessed inanity. 
By saint, by sage by preacher, and by poet, 

Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 

From holding up the nothingness of life ? 

VII. 

Dogs, or men ! — for I flatter you in saying 
That ye are dogs — your betters far — ye 
may 
Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 

To show ye what ye are in every way. 
As little as the moon stops for the baying 
Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw 
one ray 
From out her skies — then howl your idle 

wrath ! 
While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 

VIII. 

" Fierce loves and faithless wars " — I am not 
sure 
If this be the right reading — 'tis no matter ; 
The fact's about tlie same, I am secure ; 

I sing them both, and am about to batter 
A town which did a famous siege endure, 
And was beleaguered both by land and 
water 
By Souvaroff, or Anglic^ Suwarrow, 
Who loved blood as an alderman loves mar- 
row. 

IX. 

The fortress is called Ismail, and is placed 
Upon the Danube's left branch and left 
bank, 
With buildings in the Oriental taste. 

But still a fortress of the foremost rank, 
Or was at least, unless 'tis since defaced. 
Which with your conquerors is a common 
prank . 
It stands some eighty versts from the high 

sea, 
And measures round of toises thousands three. 

X. 

Within the extent of this fortification 

A borough is comprised along the height 

Upon the left, which from its loftier station 
Commands the city, and upon its site 

A Greek had raised around this elevation 



DON ytJAM. 



817 



A quantity of p.ilisades upright, 
So placed as to impede the fire of those 
Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 



This circumstance may serve to give a notion 
Of the higli talents of this new Vauban : 

But the town ditch below was deep as ocean, 
The rampart higher than you'd wish to 
hang: 

But then there was a great want of precaution 
(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang), 

Nor work advanced, nor covered way was 
there, 

To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare," 

XII. 

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge. 
And walls as thick as most skulls born as 
yet : 

Two batteries, cap-^-pie, as our St. George, 
Case-mated one, and t'other " a barbette," 

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge ; 
While two and twenty cannon duly set 

Rose over the town's right side, in bristling 
tier. 

Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 

But from the river the town's open quite, 

Because the Turks could never be persuaded 
A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight ; 
And such their creed was, till they were in- 
vaded, 
When it grew rather late to set things right. 

But as the Danube could not well be waded, 
They looked upon the Muscovite flotilla. 
And only shouted, " Allah I " and " Bis Mil- 
lah ! " 

XIV. 

The Russians now were ready to attack ; 
But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
How shall I spell the name of each Cos^acque 
Who were immortal, could one tell their 
story ? 
Alas ! what to their memory can lack ? 

Achilles' self was not more grim and gory 
Than thousands of this new and polished na- 
tion. 
Whose names want nothing but — pronuncia- 
tion. 



XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after his own bent ; 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded. 

But shortly he had cause to be content. 
In the mean time, the batteries proceeded, 



And fourscore cannon on the Danube's 

border 
Were briskly fired and answered in due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 
Of the troops were embarked, the siege to 
raise, 
A courier on the spur inspired new heart 

Into all panters for newspaper praise, 
As well as dilettanti in war's art, 

By his despatches couched in pithy phrase ; 
Announcing the appointment of that lover of 
Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Sou- 
varoff. 

XL. 

The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be 
partial — 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With its proud brow, it merits slight ap- 
plause. 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

" You will take Ismail at whatever price." 



The whole camp rung with joy ; you would 
have thought 

That they were going to a marriage feast 
(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 

Since there is discord after both at least) : 
There was not now a luggage bov but sought 

Danger and spoil with ardor much in- 
creased ; 
And why? because a little — odd — old man, 
Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 

L. 

But so it was ; and every preparation 
Was made with all alacrity : the first 

Detachment of three columns took its station, 
And waited but the signal's voice to burst 

Upon the foe : the second's ordination 
Was also in three columns, with a thirst 

For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 

The third, in columns two, attacked by water. 



LVI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill — 
For this great conqueror played the cor- 
poral — 
Some Cossacques, hovering Hke hawks round 
a hill, 
Had met a party towards the twilight's fall. 
One of whom spoke their tongue — or well or ill, 
'Twas much that he was understood at all; 



818 



DON yUAN. 



But whether from his voice, or speech, or man- 
ner, 

They found that he had fought beneath their 
banner. 

LVII. 

Whereon immediately at his request 

They brought him and his comrades to 
headquarters ; 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have 
guessed 
That these were merely masquerading Tar- 
tars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashioned vest 
Lurked Christianity ; which sometimes bar- 
ters 
Her inwardgraceforoutward show, and makes 
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 

LVII I. 

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt 
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling. 

Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 
And lecturing on the noble art of killing, — 

For deeming human clay but common dirt, 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 

His maxims, which to martial comprehension 

Proved death in battle equal to a pension ; — 



Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacques and their prey, turned round 
and cast 
Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — 
" Whence come ye?" — "From Constanti- 
nople last. 
Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 
"What are ye?" — "What you see us." 
Briefly passed 
This dialogue ; for he who answered knew 
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 



" Your names? " — " Mine's Johnson, and my 
comrade's Juan ; 
The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man norwoman." The chief threw on 
The party a slight glance, then said, "I have 
heard 
Your name before, the second is a new one : 
To bring the other three here was absurd : 
But let that pass": — I think I have heard your 

name 
In the Nikolaiew regiment ? " — " The same." 

LXI. 

" You served at Widdin ? " — " Yes." — " You 

led the attack? " 
" I did." — " What next ? " — "I really hardly 

know." 
" You were the first i' the breach? " — "I was 

not slack 



At least to follow those who might be so." 
" What followed ? " — "A shot laid me on my 
back. 
And I became a prisoner to the foe." 
" You shall have vengeance, for the town sur- 
rounded 
Is twice as strong as that where you were 
wounded." 

LXII. 

" Where will you serve ? " — " Where'er you 
please." — " I know 
You hke to be the hope of the forlorn. 
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
After the hardshijis you've already borne. 
And this young fellow — say what can he do? 
He with the beardless chin and garments 
torn ? " 
" Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
In war than love, he had better lead the 
assault." 

LXIII. 

" He shall if that he dare." Here Juan bowed 
Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 

Continued : " Your old regiment's allowed. 
By special providence, to lead to-morrow. 

Or it may be to-night, the assault : I have 
vowed 
To several saints, that shortly plough or 
harrow 

Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 

Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 



"So now, my lads, for glory! " — Here he 
turned 
And drilled away in the most classic Russian, 
Until each high, heroic bosom burned 

For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 
A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurned 
All earthly goods save tithes) and bade 
them push on 
To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 
The armies of the Christian Empress Cathe- 
rine. 

LXV. 

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy JA 
Himself a favorite, ventured to address 

Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high" 
In his resumed amusement. " I confess 

My debt in being thus allowed to die 
Among the foremost ; but if you'd express 

Explicitly our several posts, my friend 

And self would know what duty to attend." 

LXVI. .'-r 

" Right ! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 
Will join your former regiment, which 

should be 
Now under arms. Ho! Katskoff, take him 

to — 



DON yUAN. 



819 



(Here he called up a Polish orderly) 
His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew: 

The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 
He's a fine boy. The women may b(^ sent 
To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 



LXX. 
He said, — and in the kindest Calmuck tone, — 
" Why, Johnson, what the devil do you 
mean 
By bringing women here ? They shall be 
shown 
All the attention possible, and seen 
In safety to the wagons, where alone 

In fact they can be safe. You should have 
been 
Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 
Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives." 

LXXI. 
" May it please your excellency," thus replied 
Our British friend, " these are the wives of 
others, 
And not our own. I am too qualified 
By service with my military brothers 
To break the rules by bringing one's own 
bride 
Into a camp : I know that nought so bothers 
The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 
As leaving a small family at large. 

LXXII. 
" But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 

With their attendant aided our escape, 
And afterwards accompanied us through 

A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 
To me this kind of life is not so new; 

To them, poor things, it is an awkward 
scrape. 
I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely. 
Request that they may both be used genteelly." 



LXXVI. 

And then with tears, and sighs, and some 
slight kisses, 

They parted for the present — these to await, 
According to the artillery's hits or misses, 

What sages call Chance, Providence, or 
Fate — 
(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 

A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 
While their beloved friends began to arm, 
To burn a town which never did them harm. 



LXXX. 
Oh, thou eternal Homer! I have now 
To paint a siege, wherein more men were 
slain 



With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
Than in my Greek gazette of that campaign ; 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow, 
To vie with thee would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood ; 

LXXXI. 
If not in poetry, at least in fact ; 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum 1 
Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each 
act, 
There should be ne'ertheless a slight sub- 
stratum. 
But now the town is going to be attacked ; 
Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 
'em ? 
Souls of immortal generals ! Phoebus watches 
To color up his rays from your despatches. 

LXXXII. 
Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte ! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of killed and 
wounded ! 
Shade of Leonidas, who fought so heaity, 
When my poor Greece was once, as now, 
surrounded ! 
Oh, Caesar's Commentaries! now impart, ye 
Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 

LXXXIII. 
When I call " fading " martial immortality, 

I mean, that every age and every year, 
And almost every day in sad reality, 

Some sucking hero is compelled to rear, 
Who, when we come to sum up the totality 

Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 
Turns out to be a butcher in great business. 
Afflicting young folks' with a sort of dizziness. 



Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, 
scarlet. 

Are things immortal to immortal man. 
As purple to the Babylonian har:ot : 

An uniform to boys is like a fan 
To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet 

But deems himself the first in Glory's van. 
But Glory's glory; and if you would find 
What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind I 

LXX XV. 

At least he feels it, and some say he sees, 
Because he runs before it like a pig; 

Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 
Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, 

A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. 

The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 

Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 



S20 



DON yUAN. 



LXXXVI. 

Hark ! through the silence of the cold, dull 
night, 
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank ! 
Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 

Along the leaguered wail and bristling bank 

Of the armed river, while with straggling light 

The stars peep through the vapors dim and 

dank, 

Which curl in curious wreaths : — how soon 

the smoke 
Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 



LXXXVII. 

Here pause we for the present — as even then 
That awful pause, dividing life from death, 
Struck for an instant on the hearts of men. 
Thousands of whom were drawing their 
last breath ! 
A moment — and all will be life again ! 

The march ! the charge ! the shouts of 
either faith ! 
Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment 

more — 
The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



CANTO THE EIGHTH. 



I. 

Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and 
wounds ! 
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may 
deem. 
Too gentle reader ! and mostshocking sounds : 
And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 
At present such things, since they are her 
theme. 
So be they her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

II. 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 
To wield them in their terrible array. 

The army, like a lion from his den, 

Marched forth with nerve and sinews bent 
to slay, — 

A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 

Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in 
vain 

Immediately in others grew again. 

III. 
History can only take things in the gross ; 

But could we know them in detail, perchance 
In balancing the profit and the loss, 

War's merit it by no means might enhance. 
To waste so much gold for a little dross. 

As hath been done, mere conquest to ad- 
vance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 

And why ? — because it brings self-approba- 
tion ; 
Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a na- 
tion. 



Which (it may be) has not much left to 
spare, 
A higher title, or a loftier station, 

Though they may make Corruption gape 
or stare, 
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles. 
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. 

V. 

And such they are — and such they will be 
found ; 

Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
Whose every battle-field is holy ground. 

Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds 
undone. 
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound 1 

While the mere victor's may appal or stun 
The servile and the vain, such names will be 
A watchword till the future shall be free. 

VI. 

The night was dark, and the thick mist allowed 
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame, 
Which arched the horizon like a fiery cloud. 
And in the Danube's waters shone the 
same — 
A mirrored hell ! the volleying roar, and loud 
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'er- 
came 
The ear far more than thunder ; for heaven's 

flashes. 
Spare, or smite rarely — man's make millions 
ashes ! 

VII. 

The column ordered on the assault scarce 
passed 
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises. 
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, 
Answering the Christian thunders with like 
voices : 
Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream em- 
braced. 



DON JUAN. 



821 



Which rocked as 'twere beneath the mighty 
noises ; 
While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, 

when 
The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 

VIII. 

And one enormous shout of " Allah ! " rose 
In the same moment, loud as even the roar 

Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 

Resounded "Allah!" and the clouds which 
close 
With thick'ning canopy the conflict o'er, 

Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark 1 through 

All sounds it pierceth " Allah ! Allah I Hu 1 " 



XIX. 

Juan and Johnson joined a certain corps. 
And fought away with might and main, not 
knowing 
The way which they had never trod before. 
And still less guessing where they might be 
going ; 
But on they marched, dead bodies trampling 
o'er. 
Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, 
glowing. 
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 
To their tivo selves, one whole bright bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus on they wallowed in the bloody mire 
Of dead and dying thousands, — sometimes 
gaining 
A yard or two of ground, which brought them 
nigher 
To some odd angle for which all were strain- 
ing; 
At other times, repulsed by the close fire. 

Which really poured as if all hell were raining 
Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards 

o'er 
A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 

XXI. 

Though 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, and 
though 
The night!y muster and the silent march 
In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 

So much as under a triumphal arch. 
Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or 
throw 
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as 
starch. 
Which stiffened heaven) as if he wished for 

day; — 
Yet for ail this he did not run away. 



XXVII. 



Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career, 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' 
sides 
Just at the close of the first bridal year, 

By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides. 
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, 

When, after a good deal of heavy firing. 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 



XXXII. 

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
And left at large, like a young heir, to make 

His way to — where he knew not — single 
handed 
As travellers follow over bog and brake 

An " ignis fatuus ; " or as sailors stranded 
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake; 

So Juan, following honor and his nose, 

Rushed where the thickest fire announced 
most foes. 



And as he rushed along, it came to pass he 
Fell in with what was late the second column. 

Under the orders of the General Lascy, 
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume 

Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 

Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant 
faces 

And levelled weapons still against the glacis. 

XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too. 
Who had " retreated," as the phrase is when 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how " to cut and come 
again," 

And never ran away, except when running 

Was nothingbuta valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 

And so, when all his corps were dead or 
dying. 
Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose 
More virgin valor never dreamt of flying. 
From ignorance of danger, which indues 
[ Its votaries, like innocence relying 
' On its own strength, with careless nerves and 
thews, — 
Johnson retired a little, just to rally 
Those who catch cold in " shadows of Death's 
valley," 



822 



DON JUAN. 



XXXVII. 
And there, a little sheltered from the shot, 

Wiiich rained from bastion, battery, parapet. 
Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there 
was not 
In this extensive city, sore beset 
By Christian soldiery, a single spot 

Which did not combat like the devil, as 
yet, — 
He found a number of Chasseurs, all scattered 
By the resistance of the chase they battered. 

XXXVIII. 
And these he called on ; and, what's strange, 
they came 
Unto his call, unlike "the spirits from 
The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, 
Says Hotspur, long ere they will'leave their 
home. 
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, 
And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds 
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 



XLIII. 
They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail. 

Grass before scythes, or corn below the 
sickle. 
Proving that trite old truth, that life's as frail 

As any other boon for which men stickle. 
The Turkish batteries thrashed them like a flail 

Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle. • 
Putting the very bravest, who were knocked 
Upon the head, before their guns were cocked. 

XLIV. 
The Turks behind the traverses and flanks 

Of the next bastion, fired away like devils. 
And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole 
ranks : 
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who 
levels 
Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving 
pranks. 
So ordered it, amidst these sulphury revels. 
That Johnson and some few who had not 

scampered, 
Reached the interior talus of the rampart. 

XLV. 
First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen 

Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 
All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin. 
Flame was showered forth above, as well's 
below. 
So that you scarce could say who best had 
chosi-n, 
The gentlemen that were the first to show 
Their niaitial faces on the parapet, 
Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 



XLVI. 

But those who scaled, found out that their ad- 
vance 

Was favored by an accident or blunder : 
Tbe Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 

Had pallisadoed in a way you'd wonder 
To see in forts of Netherlands or FVance — 

(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock 
under) — 
Right in the middle of the parapet 
Just named, these palisades were primly set. 



XLVIII. 
Among the first, — I will not say theyfrj-^, 

For such precedence upon such occasions 
Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels buist 

Out between friends as well as allied nations: 
The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial pa- 
tience, 
As say that Wellington at Waterloo 
Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so 
too. 



Lll. 
But to continue : — I say not the first. 

But of the first, our little fiiend Don Juan 
Walked o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 
Amidst such scenes — though this was quite 
a new one 
To him, and I should hope to most. The 
thirst 
Of glory, which so pierces through and 
through one. 
Pervaded him — although a generous creature, 
As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 



The General Lascy, who had been hard 
pressed. 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 

Who came as if just dropped down from 
the moon. 
To Juan, who was nearest him, addressed 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon. 
Not reckoning him to be a "base Bezonian," 
(As Pistol calls it) but a young Livonian. 



LX. 

The town was entered. Oh eternity ! — 
" God made the country, and man made 
the town," 

So Cowper says — and I begin to be 
Of his 0[)inion, when I see cast down 

Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, 
All walls men know, and many never known ; 



DON JUAN. 



823 



And pondering on the present and the past, 
To deem the woods shall be our home at 
last : — 

LXI. 
Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer. 
Who passes for in life and death most 
lucky, 
Of the great names which in our faces stare, 
The general Boone, back-woodsman of 
Kentucky 
Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere ; 

For killing not"hing but a bear or buck, he 
Enjoyed the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 

LXir. 
Crime came not near him — she is not the 
child 
Of solitude ; Health shrank not from him — 
for 
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild. 
Where if men seek her not, and death be 
more 
Their choice than life, forgive them, as be- 
guiled 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 
In cities caged. The present case in point I 
Cite is, that Boone lived hunting up to ninety ; 

LXIII. 
And what's still stranger, left behind a name 

For which men vainly decimate the throng, 
Not only famous, but of \}[i2i\.good fame. 

Without which glory's but a tavern song — 
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame. 

Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with 
wrong. 
An active hermit, even in age the child 
Of Nature, or the man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 
'Tis true he shrank from men even of his 
nation, 
Wlien they built up unto his darling trees, — 
He moved some hundred miles off, for a 
station 
Where there were fewer houses and more 
ease ; 
The inconvenience of civilization 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor 
please ; 
But where he met the individual man. 
He showed himself as kind as mortal can. 

LXV. 
He was not all alone : around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase. 
Whose young, unwakened world was ever 
new. 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 
On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 



A frown on Nature's or on human face ; — 
The free-born forest found and kept them free, 
And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were 
they, 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, 
Because their thoughts had never been the 
prey 
Of care or gain : the green woods were their 
portions ; 
No sinking spirits told them they grew gray. 
No fashion made them apes of her dis- 
tortions ; 
Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles. 
Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

LXVII. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slum- 
bers. 
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil ; 
Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 
Corruption could not make their hearts her 
soil; 
The lust which stings, the splendor which en- 
cumbers, 
With the free foresters divide no spoil ; 
Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 
Of this unsighing people of the woods. 

LXVIII. 
So much for Nature : — by way of variety. 
Now- back to thy great joys. Civilization! 
And the sweet consequence of large society, 

War, pestilence, the despot's desolation. 
The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 
The millions slain by soldiers for their ra- 
tion. 
The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at three- 
score. 
With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 

LXIX. 

The town was entered : first one column made 

Its sanguinary way good — then another; 
The reekmg bayonet and the flashing blade 
Clashed 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and 
mother 
With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to 
upbraid : — 
Still closersulphuryclouds began to smother 
The breath of morn and man, where foot by 

foot 
The maddened Turks their city still dispute. 



LXXXVII. 
The city's taken, but not rendered ! — No ! 
There's not a Moslem that hath yielded 
sword ; 



824 



DON JUAN. 



The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 
Rolls by the city wail ; but deed nor word 

Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe : 
In vain the yell of victory is roared 

By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 

Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 

LXXXVIII. 
The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 

And human lives are lavished everywhere. 
As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves 
When the stripped forest bows to the bleak 
air. 
And groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves, 
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left 
bare; 
But still it falls with vast and awful splinters, 
As oaks blown down with all their thousand 
winters. 

LXXXIX. 
It is an awful topic — but 'tis not 

My cue for any time to be terrific : 
For checkered as. is seen our human lot 
With good, and bad, and worse, alike pro- 
lific 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; — 
Without, or with offence to friends or foes, 
I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

xc. 
And one good action in the midst of crimes 

Is " quite refreshing," in the affected phrase 
Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times. 

With all their pretty milk-and-water ways. 
And may serve therefore to bedew these 
rhymes, 

A little scorched at present with the blaze 
Of conquest and its consequences, which 
Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 



Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 
Thousands of slaughtered men, a' yet warm 
group 
Of murdered women, who had found their 
way 
To this vain refuge, made the good heart 
droop 
And shudder; — while, as beautiful as May, 
A female child of ten years tried to stoop 
And hide her little palpitating breast 
Amidst the bodies lulled in bloody rest. 

XCII. 
Two villanous Cossacques pursued the child 
With flashing eyes and weapons : matched 
with them, 
The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild. 

Has feelings ]3ure and polished as a gem, — 
The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild ; 



And whom for this at last must we con- 
demn ? 

Their natures ? or their sovereigns, who em- 
ploy 

All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ? 

XCIII. 
Their sabres glittered o'er her little head, 
Whence her fair hair rose twining with 
affright, 
Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead : 
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad 
sight, 
I shall not say exactly what he said. 

Because it might not solace " ears polite; " 
But what he did, was to lay on their backs. 
The readiest way of reasoning with Cos- 
sacques. 

xciv. 
One's hip he slashed, and split the other's 
shoulder. 
And drove them with their brutal yells to 
seek 
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 
Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing 
colder 
As he turned o'er each pale and gory cheek, 
Don Juan raised his little captive from 
The heap a moment more had made her 
tomb. 

xcv. 
And she was chill as they, and on her face 
A slender streak of blood announced how 
near 
Her fate had been to that of all her race; 
For the same blow which laid her mother 
here 
Had scarred her brow, and left its crimson 
trace 
As the last link which all she had held dear ; 
But else unhurt, she opened her large eyes, 
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 

xcvi. 
Just at this instant, while their eyes were fixed 

Upon each other, with dilated glance, 
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, 
'mixed 
With joy to save, and dread of some mis- 
chance 
Unto his protegee ; while hers, transfixed 

With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 
Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; — 

XCVI I. 
Up came John Johnson (I will not say 
" Jack;- 
For that were vulgar, cold, and common 
plage 



DON yUAN. 



82S 



On great occasions, such as an attack 

On cities, as hath been the present case) : 

Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, 
Exclaiming: — "Juan ! Juan ! On, boy ! brace 

Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to a dollar 

That you and I will win St. George's collar. 

XCVIII. 

" The Seraskier is knocked upon the head. 
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 

The old Pacha sits among some hundreds 
dead, 
Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din 

Of our artillery and his own : 'tis said 
Our killed, already piled up to the chin. 

Lie round the battery; but still it batters. 

And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

XCIX. 

"Then up with me!" — but Juan answered, 

" Look 
Upon this child — I saved her — must not 

leave 
Her life to chance; but point me out some 

nook 
Of safety, where she less may shrink and 

grieve, 
And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson 

took 
A glance around — and shrugged — and 

twitched his sleeve 
And black silk neckcloth — and replied, 

" You're right; 
Poor thing! what's to be done ? I'm puzzled 

quite." 



CII. 
But Juan was immovable ; until 

Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 
Picked out amongst his followers with some 
skill 
Such as he thought the least given up to 
prey ; 
And swearing if the infant came to ill 

That they should all be shot on the next day ; 
But if she were delivered safe and sound. 
They should at least have fifty rubles round. 



And all allowances besides of plunder 

In fair proportion with their comrades; — 
then 
Juan consented to march on through thunder. 
Which thinned at every step their ranks of 
men : 
And yet the rest rushed eagerly — no wonder. 
For tiiey were heated by the hope of gain, 
A thing which happens everywhere each day — 
No hero trusteth wholly to half pay. 

***** 



CXXVII. 
But let me put an end unto my theme ; 

There was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! 
Far flashed her burning towers o'er Danube's 
stream, 
And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders 
grown 
Of forty thousand who had manned the wall, 
Some hundreds breathed — the rest were si- 
lent all ! 



CXXXVIII. 

Reader ! I have kept my word, — at least so 
far 

As the first Canto promised. You have now 
Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 

All very accurate, you must allow, 
And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; 

For I have drawn much less with a long bow 
Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 
But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 

cxxxix. 
With which I still can harp, and carp, and fid- 
dle. 
What further hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 
I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
But now I choose to break off in the middle, 
Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn 
wall. 
While Juan is sent off with the despatch. 
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. 



This special honor was conferred, because 
He had behaved with courage and human- 
ity— 
Which last men like, when they have time to 
pause 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 
His little captive gained him some applause 

For saving her amidst the wild insanity 
Of carnage, — and I think he was more glad 

in her 
Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 

CXLI. 
The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless ; 
all 
Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Had perished in the field or by the wall: 
Her very place of birth was but a spectre 
Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's 
call 
To prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan 

wept, 
And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 



826 



t>or^ yuAN. 



CANTO THE NINTH. 



Oh, Wellington ! (or " Vilainton " — for Fame 

Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; 
France could not even conquer your great 
name, 
But punned it down to this facetious 
phrase — 
Beating or beaten she will laugh the same,) 
You have obtained great pensions and 
much praise : 
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 
Humanity would rise, and thunder " Nay! " 

H. 

I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite 
well 
In Marin^t's affair — in fact, 'twas shabby, 
And like some other things won't do to 
tell 
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old 
abbey. 
Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell, 
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some 
tabby ; 
But though your years as man tend fast to 

zero, 
In fact your grace is still but a. young hero. 

III. 

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so 
much, 
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly 
more : 
You have repaired Legitimacy's crutch, 
A prop not quite so certain as before : 
The Spanish, and the French, as well as 
Dutch, 
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you 
restore ; 
And Waterloo has made the world your 

debtor 
(I wish your bards could sing it rather better). 

IV. 

You are "the best of cut-throats:" — do not 
start ; 
The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not mis- 
applied ; — 
War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting 
art. 
Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted once a generous part. 
The world, not the world's masters, will 
decide, 
And I shall be delighted to learn who, 
Save you and yours, have gained by Waterloo ? 



V. 

I am no flatterer — you've supped full of flat- 
tery ; 
They say you like it too — 'tis no great won- 
der. 
He whose whole life has been assault and 
battery. 
At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 
And swallowing eulogy much more than sat- 
ire, he 
May like being praised for every lucky 
.blunder. 
Called " Sayiour of the Nations" — not yet 

saved, 
And " Europe's Liberator " — still enslaved. 

VI. 
I've done. Now go and dine from off the 
plate 
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 
And send the sentinel before your gate 

A slice or two from your luxurious meals : 
He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 
Some hunger, too, they say the people 
feels : — 
There is no doubt that you deserve your 

ration, 
But pray give back a little" to the nation. 

VII. 
I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 

You, my lord duke ! is far above reflection : 
The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, 
With modern history has but small connec- 
tion : 
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes. 
You need not take them under your direc- 
tion ; 
And half a million for your Sabine farm 
Is rather dear 1 — I'm sure I mean no harm. 

VIII. 

Great men have always scorned great recom- 
penses : 
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 
Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 
George Washington had thanks and nought 
beside. 
Except the all-cloudless glory (which few 
men's is) 
To free his country : Pitt too had his pride. 
And as a high-souled minister of state is 
Renowned for ruining Great Britain gratis. 

IX. 

Never had mortal man such opportunity, 
Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 



DON JUAN. 



827 



You might have freed fallen Europe from the 

unity 
Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to 

shore : 
And now — what is your fame? Shall the 

Muse tune it ye ? 
No^v — that the rabble's first vain shouts are 

o'er ? 
Go ! hear it in your famished country's cries! 
Behold the world ! and curse your victories I 

x. 

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, 
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to 
inscribe 

Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, 
But which 'tis time to teach the hireling tribe 

Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts. 
Must be recited, and — without a bribe. 

You did great things ; but not being great in 
mind, 

Have left undone the greatest-^ and mankind. 



Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 
With which men image out the unknown 
thing 
That hides the past world, like to a set sun 
Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter 
spring — 
Death laughs at all you weep for : — look upon 
This hourly dread of all ! whose threatened 
sting 
Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath : 
Mark! how its lipless mouth grins without 
breath ! 

XII. 

Mark! how it laughs and scorns at all you 
are! 
And yet was what you are : from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 
So called ; the Antic long hath ceased to 
hear, 
But still he smiles ; and whether near or far 
He strips from man that mantle (far more 
dear 
Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin. 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones 
will grin. 

XIII. 

And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 
But still it is so ; and with such example 

Why should not Life be equally content 
With his superior, in a smile to trample 

Upon the notliings which are daily spent 
Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 

Than the eternal deluge, which devours 

Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like 
hours? 



XXII, 

'Tis time we should proceed with our good 
poem, — 

For I maintain that it is really good, 
Not only in the body but the proem. 

However little both are understood 
Just now, — but by and by the Truth will show 
'em 

Herself in her sublimest attitude: 
And till she doth, I fain must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours — ) 

Was left upon his way to the chief city 
Of the immortal Peter's polished boors. 
Who still have shown themselves more 
brave than witty. 
I know its mighty empire now allures 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that's 
a pity. 
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 



XXIX. 
Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 

Was left upon his way with the despatch. 
Where blood was talked of as we would of 
water ; 
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
Fair Catherine's pastime — who looked on 
the match 
Between these nations as a main of cocks. 
Wherein she liked her own to stand like 
rocks. 

XXX. 

And there in a kibitka he rolled on, 

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs. 

Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole 
bone,) 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, 

And orders, and on all that he had done — 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 

XXXI. 

At every jolt — and there were many — still 
He turned his eyes upon his little charge, 

As if he wished that she should fare less ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill, 
Who is no pavior, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where God takes sea and land, 

Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 

XXXII. 
At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
To be the first of what we used to call 



828 



DON JUAN. 



" Gentlemen farmers " — a race worn out quite, 

Since lately there have been no rents at all, 

And " gentlemen " are in a piteous plight. 

And " farmers " can't raise Ceres from her 

fall: 

She fell with Buonaparte — What strange 

thoughts 
Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats ! 

XXXIII. 

But Juan turned his eyes on the sweet child 
Whom he had saved from slaughter — what 
a trophy 1 
Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 
With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive 
sophy. 
Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild. 

And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 
To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sin- 
ner! 
Because he could no more digest his dinner ; — 

XXXIV. * 

Oh ye ! • or we ! or he ! or she ! reflect. 

That one life saved, especially if young 
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 
From the manure of human clay, though 
decked 

With all the praises ever said or sung : 
Though hymned by every harp, unless within 
Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din. 



XLII. 

So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 
Now pondering: — it is time we should 
narrate. 

I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 
Now we 11 get o'er the ground at a great 
rate. 

I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey, we've so many tours of late : 

Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 

That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 

XLIII. 
Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new shivered in a storm. 

Over a cocked hat in a crowded room, 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn 
Gorme, 

Of yellow casimire we may presume. 
White stockings drawn uncurdled as new milk 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk ; 

XLIV. 

Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, 
Made up by youth, fame, and an army 
tailor — 



That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns 
paler, 
Seeing how Art can make her work more grand 
(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a 
gaoler), — 
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 
Seems Love turned a lieutenant of artillery ! 

XLV. 
His bandage slipped down into a cravat; 

His wings subdued to epaulettes ; his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever ; 
His bow converted into a cocked hat ; 

But still so like, that Psyche were more clever 
Than some wives (who make blunders no less 

stupid). 
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

XLVI. 
The courtiers stared, the ladies whispered, and 
The empress smiled : the reigning favorite 
frowned — 
I quite forget which of them was in hand 
Just then ; as they are rather numerous 
found, 
Who took by turns that difficult command 

Since first her majesty was singly crowned : 
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 
All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLVII. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 
Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'ertheless 

There was a something in his turn of limb, 
And still more in his eye, which seemed to 
express, 

That though he looked one of the seraphim, 
There lurked a man beneath the spirit's dress. 

Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 



LIII, 

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 

And had retained his boyish look beyond 
The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, 
With beards and whiskers, and the like, the 
fond 
Parisian aspect which upset old Troy 
And founded Doctors' Commons : — I have 
conned • 
The history of divorces, which, though 

chequered. 
Calls I lion's the first damages on record. 



And Catherine, who loved all things, (save 
her lord, 
Who was gone to his place,) and passed 
for much. 



DOM yUAM. 



829 



Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorred) 
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 

Of sentiment; ami he she most adored 
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 

A lover as had cost her many a tear, 

And yet but made a middling grenadier. 



LVII. 

Catherine, who was the grand epitome 

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or 
what 
You please (it causes all the things which 
be, 
So you may take your choice of this or 
that) — 
Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 

The handsome herald, on whose plumage 
sat 
Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 
With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LVIII. 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
Forgetting quite the woman (which com- 
posed 
At least three parts of this great whole), she 
tore 
The letter open with an air which posed 
The court, that watched each look her visage 
wore. 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed 
Fair weather for the day. Though rather 

spacious. 
Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gra- 
cious. 

LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys : the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 

These quenched a moment her ambition's 
thirst — 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 

In vain! — As falls the dews on quenchless 
sands. 

Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands ! 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 
She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, 
who threw 
Into a Russian couplet rather dull 
The whole gazette of thousands whom he 
slew, 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which runs naturally through 
Our veins, when things called sovereigns think 

it best 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 



LXI. 
The two first feelings ran their course com- 
plete. 
And lighted first her eye, and then her 
mouth : 
The whole court looked immediately most 
sweet. 
Like flowers well watered after a long 
drouth : — 
But when on the lieutenant at her feet 

Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth 
Almost as much as on a new despatch, 
Glanced mildly, all tjie world was on the watch. 

***** 

LXXVIII. 

The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 
And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 

The elder ladies' wrinkles curled much crisper 
As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 

On one another, and each lovely lisper 
Smiled as she talked the matter o'er; but 
tears 

Of rjvalship rose in each clouded eye 

Of all the standing army who stood by. 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired, Who was this very new young 
man. 
Who promised to be great in some few hours ? 
Which is full soon (though life is but a 
span). 
Already they beheld the silver showers 
Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can, 
Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 
Of several ribands, and some thousand peas- 
ants. 

LXXX. 

Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are : 
Love, that great opener of the heart and all 

The ways that lead there, be they near or far, 
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 

Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war. 
And was not the best wife, uriless we call 

Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 'tis better 

That one should die, than two drag on the 
fetter) — 

LXXXI. 

Love had made Catherine make eacli lover's 
fortune, 
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 
Whose avarice all disliursements did impor- 
tune. 
If history, the grand liar, ever saith 
The truth ; and though grief her old age 
might shorten. 
Because she put a favorite to death. 
j Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, 
' And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 



830 



DON yUAN. 



LXXXII. 
But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 

In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle 

Round the young man with their congratu- 
lations. 
Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 

Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 
It is to speculate on liandsome faces. 
Especially when such lead to high places. 

LXXXIII. 
Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general object of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow, 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Though modest, on his unembarrassed brow 

Nature had written "gentleman." He said 
Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 



LXXXIV. 
An order from her majesty consigned 

Our young lieutenant to the genial care 
Of those in office : all the world looked kind, 

(As it will look sometimes with the first stare, 
Which youth would not act ill to keep in 
mind,) 

As also did Miss Protasoff then there. 
Named from her mystic office " I'Eprouveuse," 
A term inexplicable to the Muse. 



With her then, as in humble duty bound, 
Juan retired, — and so will I, until 

My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 
We have just lit on a " lieaven-kissinghill, 

So lofty that I feel my brain turn round. 
And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 

Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, 

To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 



CANTO THE TENTH. 



I. 

When Newlon saw an apple fall, he found 
In that slight startle from his contempla- 
tion — 
'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground 

For any sage's creed or calculation) — 
A mode of proving that the earth turned 
round 
In a most natural whirl, called " gravita- 
tion ; " 
And this is the sole mortal who could grapple. 
Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple. 

II. 

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose. 
It this be true ; for we must deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose 
Through the then unpaved stars the turn- 
pike road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes : 
For ever since immortal man hath glowed 

Witli all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 

III. 

And wherefore this exordium? — Why, just 
now. 

In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 
My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 

And my internal spirit cut a caper : 
And though so much inferior, as I know. 

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapor. 
Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
1 wish to do as much by poesy. 



IV, 

In the wind's eye I have sailed, and sail ; but 
for 

The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 
But at the least I have shunned the common 
shore, 

And leaving land far out of sight, would skim 
The ocean of eternity : the roar 

Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim. 
But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 
Where ships have foundered, as doth many a 
boat. 

V. 
We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom 

Of favoritism, but not yet in the blush; — 
And far be it from my Muses to presume 

(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 
To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 

It is enough that Fortune found him flush 
Of youth, and vigor, beauty, and those things 
Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 



XXI. 
Don Juan grew a very polished Russian — 
How we won't mention, ivhy we need not 
say : 
Few youthful minds can stand the strong con- 
cussion 
Of any slight temptation in their way; 
But his just now were spread as is a cushion 
Smoothed fora monarch's seat of honor : gay 
Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 
Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 



DON yUAN. 



831 



XXII. 
The favor of the empiess was agreeable ; 

And though the duty waxed a httle hard, 
Young people at his time of life should be able 

To come off handsomely in that regard. 
He was now growing up like a green tree, able 

P'or love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

XXIII. 
About this time, as might have been antici- 
pated. 
Seduced by youtli and dangerous examples, 
Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; 

Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 
On our fresh feelings, but — as being partici- 
pated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 
Of frail humanity — must make us selfish. 
And shut our souls up in us like a shell-tish. 



XXXVII. 
The gentle Juan flourished, though at times 

He felt like other plants called sensitive, 
Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do 
from rhymes. 

Save such as Southey can afford to give. 
Perhaps he longed in bitter frosts for climes 

In which the Neva's ice would cease to live 
Before May-day : perhaps, despite his duty, 
In royalty's vast arms he sighed for beauty : 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps — but, sans perhaps, we need not 
seek 

For causes young or old : the canker-worm 
Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek. 

As well as further drain the withered form : 
Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 

His bills in, and however we may storm, 
They must be paid : though six days smoothly 

run. 
The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
The empress was alarmed, and her physi- 
cian 
(The same who physicked Peter) found the 

Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 
Which augured of the dead, however quick 
Itself, and showed a feverish disposition ; 
At which the whole court was extremely 

troubled. 
The sovereign shocked, and all his medicines 
doubled. 



XLIII. 
Juan demurred at this first notice to 

Quit ; and though death had threatened an 
ejection. 
His youth and constitution bore him through. 

And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
But still his state was delicate: the hue 

Of health but flickered with a faint i eflection 
Along his wasted cheek, and seemed in gravel 
The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 
The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 

Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 
Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim. 

Who did not like at first to lose her minion: 
But when she saw his dazzling eve wax dim. 

And drooping like an eagle's with dipt pin- 
ion, 
She then resolved to send him on a mission, 
But in a style becoming his condition. 

XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation 
Between the British cabinet and Russiat., 

Maintained with all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt to 
push on ; 

Something about the Baltic's navigation. 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
Which Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 

XLVI. 
So Catherine, who had a handsome way 

Of fitting out her favorites, conferred 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her royal splendor, and reward 
His services. He kissed hands the next day, 

Received instructions how to play his card, 
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honors, 
Which showed what great discernment was 
the donor's. 



LVIII. 
They journeyed on through Poland and 
through Warsaw, 
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of 
iron : 
Through Courland also, which that famous 
farce saw 
Which gave her dukes the graceless name 
of " Biron." 
"Tis the same landscape which the modern 
Mars saw. 
Who marched to Moscow, led by Fame, the 
siren 1 
To lose by one month's frost some twenty 

years 
Of conquest, and his guard of gienadiers. 



832 



DON yUAN. 



I 



LIX. 

Let this not seem an anti-climax : — " Oh ! 
My guard ! my old guard ! " exclaimed that 
god of clay. 
Think of the Tliunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 
Alas ! that glory should be chilled by snow ! 

But should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Koscuisko's name 
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's 
flame. 

LX. 

From Poland they came on through Prussia 
Proper, 
And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt. 
Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper. 
Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 
Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
Have princes who spur more than their pos- 
tilions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the 
like, 
Until he reached the castellated Rhine : — 
Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye 
strike 
All phantasies, not even excepting mine ; 
A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 

Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 
Between the present and past worlds, and 

hover 
Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 

LXII. 

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 
Which Drachenfels frowns over hke a spec- 
tre 

Of the good feudal times for ever gone. 
On which I have not time just now to lec- 
ture. 

From thence hewas drawn onwards toCologne, 
A city which presents to the inspector . 

Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone. 

The greatest number flesh hath ever known. 

LXIII. 

From thence to Holland's Hague and Hel- 
voetsluys. 
That water -land of Dutchmen and of 
ditches. 
Where juniper expresses its best juice. 
The poor man's sparkling substitute for 
riches. 
Senates and sages have condemned its use — 

But to deny the mob a cordial, which is 
Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel. 
Good government has left them, seems but 
cruel. 



Here he embarked, and with a flowing sail 
Went bounding for the island of the free. 
Towards which the impatient wind blew half 
a gale ; 
High dashed the spray, the bows dipped in 
the sea, 
And sea-sick passengers turned somewhat 
pale ; 
But Juan, seasoned, as he well might be. 
By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 
\Vhich passed, or catch the first glimpse of 
the cliffs. 

LXV, 

At length they rose, like a white wall along 
The blue sea's border ; and Don Juan felt — 

What even young strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 

A kind of pride that he should be among 
Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly 
dealt 

Their goods and edicts out from pole to 
pole. 

And made the very billows pay them toll. 



I've no great cause to love that spot of earth, 
Which holds what might have been the 
noblest nation ; 

But though I owe it little but my birth, 
I feel a mixed regret and veneration 

For its decaying fame and former worth. 
Seven years (the usual term of transporta- 
tion) 

Of absence lay one's old resentments level. 

When a man's country's going to the devil. 

LXVII. 

Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 

How her great name is now throughout 
abhorred. 
How eager all the earth is for the blow 
Which shall lay bare her bosom to the 
sword ; 
How all the nations deem her their worst foe, 
That worse than worst of foes, the once 
adored 
False friend, who held out freedom to man- 
kind, 
And now would chain them, to the very 
mind ; — 

LXVIII. 

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
Who is but first of slaves ? The nations are 

In prison, — but the gaoler, what is he ? 
No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 

Is the poor privilege to turn the key 

Upon the captive, freedom ? He's as far 

From the enjoyment of the earth and air 

Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 



DON JOAN. 



833 



LXIX. 

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties, 
Thy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbor, and hotel ; 

Thy custom-house, with all its delicate du- 
ties; 
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 



Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 

To those who upon land or water dwell ; 
And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, 
Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is de- 
ducted. 



CANTO THE ELEVENTH. 



When Bishop Berkeley said " there was no 
matter," 

And proved it — 'twas no matter what he 
said : 
They say his system 'tis in vain to batter. 

Too subtle for the airiest human head ; 
And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter 

Gladly all matters down to stone or lead. 
Or adamant, to find the world a spirit. 
And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 

II. 
What a sublime discovery 'twas to make the 

Universe universal egotism. 
That all's ideal — all ourselves : I'll stake the 
World (be it what you will) that thafs no 
schism. 
Oh Doubt ! — if thou be'st Doubt, for which 
some take thee. 
But which I doubt extremely — thou sole 
prism 
Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of 

spirit 1 
Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly 
bear it. 

III. 
For ever and anon comes Indigestion, 

(Not the most "dainty Ariel") and pre- 
plexes 
Our soarings with another sort of question : 

And that which after all my spirit vexes. 
Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye 
on. 
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 
Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder. 
The world, which at the worst's a glorious 
blunder — 

IV. 
If it be chance ; or if it be according 

To the old text, still better : — lest it should 
Turn out so, we'll say nothing, 'gainst the 
wording. 
As several people think such hazards rude. 
They're right ; our days are too brief for af- 
fording 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 



Decide, and everybody one day will 
Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 

V. 
And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 

Discussion, which is neither here nor there: 
If I agree that what is, is ; then this I call 

Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair; 
Thetruth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical : 

I don't know what the reason is — the air 
Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 
Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 



The first attack at once proved the Divinity 
(But that I never doubted, nor the Devil) ; 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 
The third, the usual Origin of Evil ; 

The fourth at once established the whole 
Trinity 
On so uncontrovertible a level. 

That I devoutly wished the three were four. 

On purpose to believe so much the more, 

VII. 

To our theme. — The man who has stood on 
the Acropolis, 
And looked down over Attica ; or he 
Who has sailed where picturesque Constan- 
tinople is. 
Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropo- 
lis. 
Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, 
May not think much of London's first appear- 
ance — 
But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence*? 



XXIX. 

Over the stones still rattling, up Pall Mall, 
Through crowds and carriages, but waxing 
thinner 
As thundered knockers broke the long sealed 
spell 
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early din- 
ner 



834 



DON JUAN. 



Admitted a small party as night fell, — 

Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, 
Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 
St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells." 

XXX. 

They reached the hotel : forth streamed from 
the front door 

A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 
The mob stood, and as usual several score 

Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
In decent London when the daylight's o'er; 

Commodious but immoral, they are found 
Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage. — 
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage 

XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels. 

Especially for foreigners — and mostly 

For those whom favor or whom fortune swells, 
And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 

There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells 
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), 

Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 

And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 

XXXII. 

uan, whose was a delicate commission. 

Private, though publicly important, bore 
No title to point out with due precision 

The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 
'Twas merely known that on a secret mission, 
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, 
Young, handsome, and accomplished, who 

was said 
(In whispers) to have turned his sovereign's 
head. 

XXXIII. 
Some rumor also of some strange adventures 

Had gone before him, and his wars and 
loves ; 
And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 

And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves 
Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 

Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves. 
He found himself extremely in the fashion. 
Which serves our thinking people for a pas- 
sion. 

XXXIV. 
I don'tmean that they are passionless, but quite 

The contrary ; but then 'tis in the head ; 
Yet as the consequences are as bright 

As if they acted with the heart instead. 
What after all can signify tlie site 

Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 
In safety to the place from which you start. 
What matters if tlie road be head or heart ? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place. 
To proper placemen, every Russ credential ; 



And was received with all the due grimace, i 
By those who govern in the mood potential, ' 
Who, seeing a handsome stripling with ' 
smooth face, 
Thought (what in state affairs is most es- 
sential) 
That they as easily might do the youngster. 
As hawks may pounce upon a woodland song- 
ster. 



XLVIII. 

Fair virgins blushed upon him ; wedded 
dames 

Bloomed also in less transitory hues ; 
For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 

The paintingand the painted ; youth, ceruse. 
Against his heart preferred their usual claims, 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse : 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious 

mothers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 



LXIII. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 

Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past 
With some small profit through that field so 
sterile. 
Being tired in time, and neither least nor 
last 
Left it before he had been treated very ill; 
And henceforth found himself more gaily 
classed 
Amongst the higher spirits of the day. 
The sun's true son, no vapor, but a ray. 



LXIV. 

His morns he passed in business — which 
dissected. 
Was like all business, a laborious nothing 
That leads to lassitude, the most infected 

And Centaur Nessusgarbof mortal clothing, 
And on our sofas makes us lie dejected. 

And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 
All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 
Which grows no better, though 'tis time it 
should. 

LXV. 

His afternoons he passed in visits, luncheons, 
Lounging, and boxing ; and the twilight hour 

In riding round those vegetable puncheons 
Called "Parks," where there is neither fruit 
nor flower 

Enough to gratify a bee's' slight munchings; 
But after all it is the only " bower," 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable 
fair 

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 



DON JUAN. 



835 



Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 
Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, 
then roar 
Through street and square fast flashing 
chariots hurled 
Like harnessed meteors ; then along the floor 
Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are 
twirled ; 
Then roll the brazen thunders of the door. 
Which opens to the thousand happy few 
An earthly Paradise of " Or Molu." 



LXXXVI. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 
Of what befell our hero in the land. 

Which 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as 
A moral country ? But I hold my hand — 

For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 
But 'tis as well at once to understand 

You are not a moral people, and you know it 

Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXVII. 
What Juan saw and underwent shall be 

My topic, with of course the due restriction 
Which is required by proper courtesy ; 

And recollect the work is only fiction, 



And that I sing of neither mine nor me, 
Though every scribe, in some slight turn of 
diction. 
Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 
This — when I speak, I don't hint, but speak 
out. 

LXXXVIII, 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 
Offspring of sorne sage husband-hunting 
countess. 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling Earth, 

Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount 
is, — 

Or whether he was taken in for damages. 

For being too excursive in his homages, — 

LXXXIX. ■ 

Is yet within the unread events of time 
Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will 
back 

Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 
For being as much the subject of attack 

As ever yet was any work sublime. 

By those who love to say that white is black. 

So much the better] — I may stand alone, 

But would not change my free thoughts for a 
throne. 



CANTO THE TWELFTH. 



I. 

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that 

Which is most barbarous is the middle age 
Of man ; it is — I really scarce know what ; 

But when we hover between fool and sage, 
And don't know justly what we would be at — 

A period somethint^ like a printed p.ige, 
Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair 
Grows grizzled, and we are not what we 
were ; — 

II. 
Too old for youth, — too young, at thirty-five. 

To herd with boys, or hoard with good 
three-score, — 
I wonder people should be left alive ; 

But since they are, that epoch is a bore : 
Love lingers still, although 'twere late to wive ; 

And as for other love, the illusion's o'er ; 
And money, that most pure imagination, 
Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. 



O Gold ! Why call we misers miserable ? 
Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall 



Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain 
cable 
Which holds fast other pleasures great and 
small. 
Ye who but see the saving man at table. 
And scorn his temperate board, as none at 
all, 
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing. 
Know not what visions spring from each 
cheese-paring. 

IV. 

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much 
sicker ; 
Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 
But making money, slowly first, then quicker. 
And adding still a little through each 
cross 
(Which will come over things), beats love or 
liquor. 
The gamester's counter, or the statesman's 
dross. 
O Gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper 
Which makes bank credit like a bark of 
vapor. 



836 



DON JUAN. 



V. 

Who hold the balance of the world ? Who 
reign 
O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal ? 
Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain ? 
(That make old Europe's journals squeak 
and gibber all.) 
Who keep the world, both old and new, in 
pain 
Or pleasure ? Who make politics run 
glibber all ? 
Tlie shade of Buonaparte's noble daring ? — 
Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, Bar- 
ing. 



XIII. 

" Love rules the camp, the court, the grove," — 
"for love 
Is heaven, and heaven is love : " — so sings 
the bard ; 
Which it were rather difficult to prove 

(A thing with poetry in general hard). 
Perhaps there may be something in " the 
grove," 
At least it rhymes to " love : " but I'm pre- 
pared 
To doubt (no less than landlords of their 

rental) 
If " courts " and " camps " be quite so senti- 
mental. 

XIV. 

But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash 
alone : 
Cash rules the grove, and fells it too be- 
sides ; 
Without cash, camps were thin, and courts 
were none ; 
Without cash, Malthus tells you — " take no 
brides." 
So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own 
High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the 
tides : 
And as for " Heaven being Love," why not 

say honey 
Is wax ? Heaven is not Love, 'tis Matrimony. 



XXIII. 

And now to business. — O my gentle Juan ! 
Thou art in London — in that pleasant 
place 
Where every kind of mischief's daily brew- 
ing. 
Which can await warm youth in its wild 
race. 
'Tis true, that thy career is not a new one ; 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life ; but this is a new land, 
Which foreigners can never understand. 



XXIV. 

What with a small diversity of climate. 

Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, i 

I could send forth my mandate like a primate 
Upon the rest of Europe's social stale ; 

But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, 
Great Britain, which the Muse may pene- 
trate. 

All countries have their *' Lions," but in thee 

There is but one superb menagerie. 

XXV. 
But I am sick of politics. Beg^n, 

" Paulo Majora." Juan, undecided 
Amongst the paths of^" being taken in," 

Above the ice had like a skater glided : 
When tired of play, he flirted without sin 

With some of those fair creatures who have 
prided 
Themselves on innocent tantalization, 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 



XXVII. 

The little Leila, with her orient eyes, 
And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 

(Which saw all western things with small sur- 
prise 
To the surprise of people of condition, 

Who think that novelties are butterflies 
To be pursued as food for inanition,) 

Her charming figure and romantic history 

Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVIII. 

The women much divided — as is usual 
Amongst the sex in little things or great. 

Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse 
you all — 
I have always liked you better than I state : 

Since I've grown moral, still I must accuse 
you all 
Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 

And now there was a general sensation 

Amongst you, about Leila's education. 



So first there was a generous emulation, 

And then there was a general competition 
To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a person of condition, 
It had been an affront on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition ; 
But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages. 
Whose tale belongs to " Hallam.'s Middle 
Ages," 

XXXI. 
And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to bloom upon their withering 
bough — 



DOM yUAM. 



B37 



Begged to bring up the little girl, and " out" — 
For that's the phrase that settles all things 
now, 
Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 
And all- her points as thorough-bred to 
show : 
And I assure you, that like virgin honey- 
Tastes their first season (mostly if they have 
money). 



XLI. 

But first of little Leila we'll dispose ; 

For like a day-dawn she was young and 
pure, 
Or like the old comparison of snows, 

Which are more pure than pleasant to be 
sure. 
Like many people everybody knows, 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
Who might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII. 

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor 
(I wish that others would find out the 
same) ; 
And rather wished in such things to stand 
neuter, 
For silly wards will bring their guardians 
blame : 
So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 

To make his little wild Asiatic tame. 
Consulting " the Society for Vice 
Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his 
choice. 

XLIII. 
Olden she was — but had been very young ; 

Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe ; 
Although the world has such an evil tongue 
That but my cli^ster ear will not re- 
ceive 
An echo of a syllable that's wrong : 

In fact, there's nothing makes me so much 
grieve, 
As that abominable tittle-tattle, 
Which is the cud eschewed by human cattle. 



XLVIII. 
High in high circles, gentle in her own. 

She was the mild reprover of the young 
Whenever — which means every day — they'd 
shown 
An awkward inclination to go wrong. 
The quantity of good she did's unknown, 
Or at the least would lengthen out my 
song: 
In brief, the little orphan of the East 
Had raised an interest in her, which in- 
creased. 



Juan, lOo, was a sort of favorite with her. 
Because she thought him a good heart at 
bottom, 
A little spoiled, but not so altogether; 

Which was a wonder, if you think who got 
him. 
And how he had been tossed, he scarce knew 
whither. 
Though this might ruin others, it did 7w( 
him, 
At least entirely — for he had seen too many 
Changes in youth, to be suprised at any. 



But now I will begin my poem. 'Tis 
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new. 

That from the first of Cantos up to this 

I've not begun what we have to go through. 

These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
Preludios, trying just a string or two 

Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 

And when so, you shall have the overture. 

LV. 

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 
About what's called success, or not succeed- 
ing : 
Such thoughts are quite below the strain they 
have chosen ; 
'Tis a " great moral lesson" they are reading. 
I thought, at setting off, about two dozen 
Cantos would do ; but at Apollo's plead- 
ing. 
If that my Pegasus should not be foundered, 
I think to canter gently through a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 

Yclept the Great World ; for it is the least. 
Although the highest : but as swords have 
hilts 
By which their power of mischief is in- 
creased, 
When man in battle or in quarrel tilts. 

Thus the low world, north, south, or west, 
or east. 
Must still obey the high — which is their 

handle. 
Their moon, their sun, their gas, their far- 
thing candle. 

LVII. 

He had many friends who had many wives, 
and was 
Well looked upon by both, to that extent 
Of friendship which you may accept or pass. 
It does nor good nor harm ; being merely 
meant 
To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 



838 



DON yUAN. 



And draw them nightly when a ticket's 
sent: 
And what with masquerades, and fetes, and 

balls, 
For the first season such a life scarce palls. 
* * * * * 

LXXXII. 
He also had been busy seeing sights — 

The Parliament and all the other houses ; 
Had sat beneath the gallery at nights. 
To hear debates whose thunder roused (not 
rouses) 
The world to gaze upon those northern lights 
Which flashed as far as where the musk- 
bull browses ; 
He had also stood at times behind the 

throne — 
But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 

LXXXIII. 
He saw, however, at the closing session, 
That noble sight, when really free the 
nation, 
A king in constitutional possession 

Of such a throne as is the proudest station, 
Though despots know it not — till the pro- 
gression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 
'Tis not mere splendor makes the show 

august 
To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV. 
There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now) 

A Prince, the prince of princes at the time. 
With fascination in his very bow. 

And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 
Though royalty was written on his brow. 

He had then the grace, too, rare in every 
clime. 
Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 
A finished gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXV. 
And Juan was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society : and there 
Occurred what often happens, I'm afraid, 

However disciplined and debonnaire : — • 
The talent and good humor he displayed, 

Besides the marked distinction of his air, 



Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, j 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVI. 
But what, and where, with whom,- and when, 
and why, 
Is not to be put hastily together; 
And as my object is morality 

(Whatever people say), I don't know 
whether 
I'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry. 

But harrow up his feelings till they wither, 
And hew out a huge monument of pathos, 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 

LXXXVII. 
Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction 

Ends. When the body of the book's begun, 
You'll find it of a different construction 

From what some people say 'twill be when 
done: 
The plan at present's simply in concoction. 

I can't oblige you, reader, to read on ; 
That's your affair, not mine : a. real spirit 
Should neither court neglect, nor dread to 
bear it. 

LXXXVIII. 
And if niy thunderbolt not always rattles. 

Remember, reader ! you have had before 
The worst of tempests and the best of battles 
That e'er were brewed from elements or 
gore. 
Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows 
what else : 
An usurer could scarce expect much 
more — 
But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 
Will turn upon " political economy." 

LXXXIX. 

That is your present theme for popularity : 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a 
stake. 

It grows an act of patriotic charity. 
To show the people the best way to break. 

My plan (but I, if but for singularity, 
Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 

Meantime, read all the national debt-sinkers. 

And tell me what you think of our great 
thinkers. 



CANTO THE THIRTEENTH. 



I NOW mean to be serious ; — it is time. 
Since laughter now-a-days is deemed too 
serious, 



A jest at Vice by Virtue's called a crime, 
And critically held as deleterious :• 

Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime. 
Although when long a little apt to weary us; 



DON yUAN. 



839 



And therefore shall my lay soar high and 

solemn, 
As an old temple dwindled to a column. 



The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

('Tis an old Norman name, and to be 
found 
In pedigrees by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 

And beauteous, even where beauties most 
abound, 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

III. 
I'll not gainsay them ; it is not my cue ; 
I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the 
best: 
An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue. 

Is no great matter, so 'tis in request, 
'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue — 

The kindest may be taken as a test. 
The fair sex should be always fair; and no 

man, 
Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain 
woman. 

IV. 

And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner turned for days 

More quiet, when our moon's no -more at 
full. 
We may presume to criticise or praise ; 

Because indifference begins to lull 

Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's 
ways ; 

Also because the figure and the face 

Hint, that 'tis time to give the younger place. 

V. 
I know that some would fain postpone this 
era. 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera, 

For they have passed life's equinoctial line : 
But then they have their claret and Madeira' 

To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
And county meetings, and the parliament. 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

VI. 
And is there not rehgion, and reform, 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what's called 
the " Nation ? " 
The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 

The landed and the moneyed speculation ? 
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm. 

Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 



VII. 

Rough Johnson, the great moralist, professed. 
Right honestly, " he liked an honest 
hater! " — 
The only truth that yet has been confest 

Within these latest thousand years or later. 
Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest : — 

For my part, I am but a mere sjicctator. 
And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 
Much in the mode of Goethe's Mcphis- 
topheles ; 

VIII. 

But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 

Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer 
sometimes. 
It is because I cannot well do less. 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish 
crimes, 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 



Of all tales 'tis the saddest — and more sad. 
Because it makes us smile : his hero's right. 

And still pursues the right ; — to curb the bad 
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight 

His guerdon : 'tis his virtue makes him mad 1 
But his adventures form a sorry sight ; — 

A sorrier still is the great moral taught 

By that real epic unto all who have thought. 

X. 

Redressing injury, revenging wrong. 
To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 

Opposing singly the united strong. 

From foreign yoke to free the helpless 
native : — 

Alas ! must noblest views, like an old song, 
Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, 

A jest, a riddle, Fame through thick and thin 
sought ! 

And Socrates himself but W^isdom's Quixote ? 

XI. 
Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 

A single laugh demolished the right arm 
Of his own country; — seldom since that day 
Has Spain had heroes. While Romance 
could charm. 
The world gave ground before her bright 
array ; 
And therefore have his volumes done such 
harm. 
That all their glory, as a composition. 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 

XII. 

I'm "at my old lunes" — digression, and 
forget 
The Lady Adeline Amundeville; 



840 



DON yUAN. 



The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 
Although she was not evil nor meant ill; 

But Destiny and Passion spread the net 
(Fate is a good excuse for our own will), 

And caught them ; — what do they not catch, 
methinks ? 

But I'm not CEdipus, and life's a Sphinx. 

XIII. 
I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 

To venture a solution : " Davus sum ! " 
And now I will proceed upon the pair. 

Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum, 

Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that's fair ; 

Whose charms made all men speak, and 

women dumb. 

That last's a miracle, and such was reckoned, 

And since that time there has not been a 

second. 

XIV. 

Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation. 
And wedded unto one she had loved well — 

A man known in the councils of the nation. 
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable. 

Though apt to act with fire upon occasion. 
Proud of himself and her : the world could 
tell 

Nought against either, and both .seemed 
secure — 

She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

XV. 
It chanced some diplomatical relations, 
Arising out of business, often brought 
Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 
Into close contact. Though reserved, nor 
caught 
By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and 
patience. 
And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought. 
And formed a basis of esteem, which ends 
In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XVI. 
And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
Reserve and pride could make him, and full 
slow 
In judging men — when once his judgment 
was 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe. 
Had all the pertinacity pride has, 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow. 
And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided. 
Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 



He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ; 

He almost honored him for his docility, 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with 
suavity, 



Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
He knew the world, and would not see de- 
pravity 
In fault which sometimes show the soil's 
fertility. 
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop — 
For then they are very difficult to stop. 

XXIII. 

And then he talked with him about Madrid, 
Constantinople, and such distant places ; 

Where people always did as they were bid, 
Or did what they should not with foreign 
graces. 

Of coursers also spake they : Henry rid 
Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the 
races. 

And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, 

Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 

XXIV. 
And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 

And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 

As in freemasonry a higher brother. 
Upon his talent Henry had no doubts; 

His manner showed him sprung from a 
high mother; 
And all men like to show their hospitality 
To him whose breeding matches with his 
quality. 



XLVIII. 
The London winter and the country summer 

Were well nigh over. 'Tis perhaps a pity, 
When nature wears the gown that doth be- 
come her, 
To lose those best months in a sweaty city. 
And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 

Listening debates not very wise or witty, 
Ere patriots their true country can remem- 
ber; — 
But there's no shooting (save grouse) till Sep- 
tember, 

XLIX. 
I've done my tirade. The world was gone : 
The twice two thousand, for whom earth 
was made. 
Were vanished to be what they call alone — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade. 
As many guests, or more ; before whom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 



Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 

Departed like the rest of their compeers. 

The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 
The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 



DON JUAN. 



841 



None than themselves could boast a longer 

line, 
Where time through heroes and through 

beauties steers ; 
And oaks as olden as their pedigree 
Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 

LI. 

A paragraph in every paper told 

Of their departure : such is modern fame : 
'Tis pity that it takes no further hold 

Than an advertisement, or much the same ; 
When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows 
cold, 

The Morning Post v^'as foremost to pro- 
claim — 
" Departure, for his country seat, to-day, 
Lord H. Amundeville and Ladv A. 



" We understand the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends ; 
Midst whom we have heard, from sources 
quite correct, 

The Duke of D the shooting season 

spends, 
With many more by rank and fashion 
decked ; 
Also a foreigner of high condition, 
The envoy of the secret Russian mission." 



LV. 
To Norman Abbey whirled the noble pair, — 

An old, old monastery once, and now 
Still older mansion, — of a rich and rare 

Mixed Gothic, such as artists all allow 
Few specimens yet left us can compare 

Withal : it lies perhaps a little low. 
Because the monks preferred a hill behind. 
To shelter their devotions from the wind. 

, LVI. 
It stood embosomed in a happy valley. 
Crowned by high woodlands, where the 
Druid oak 
Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thun- 
der-stroke ; 
And from beneath his boughs were seen to 
sally 
The dappled foresters — as day awoke, 
The branching stag swept down with all his 

herd. 
To quaff a brook which murmured like a bird. 

LVII. 
Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
By a river, which its softened way did take 



In currents through the calmer water spread 
Around : the wiidiowl nestled in the brake 

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 
The woods sloped downwards to its brink, 

and stood 
With their green faces fixed upon the flood. 

LVIII. 

Its outlet dashed into a deep cascade. 
Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding, 

Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 
Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 

Into a rivulet; and thus allayed. 

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now 
hiding 

Its windings through the woods; now clear, 
now blue. 

According as the skies their shadows threw. 

LIX. 

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood 
half apart 
In a grand arch, which once screened many 
an aisle. 
These last had disappeared — a loss to art : 
The first yet frowned superbly o'er the soil. 

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart. 
Which mourned the power of time's or tem- 
pest's march 
In gazing on that venerable arch. 

LX. 
Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 
Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in 
stone; 
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, 
But in the war which struck Charles from 
his throne, 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell 

The annals of lull many a line undone, — 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
For those who knew not to resign or reign. 

LXI. 

But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned. 
The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child, 

With her Son in her blessed arms, looked 
round. 
Spared by some chance when all beside 
was spoiled ; 

She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
This may be superstition, weak or wild. 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 

LXII. 
A mighty window, hollow in the centre. 

Shorn of its glass of thousand colorings. 
Through which the deepened glories once 
could enter. 



842 



DON JUAN. 



Streaming from off the sun like seraph's 
wings, 
Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now 
fainter, 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and 
oft sings 
The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 
Lie with their hallelujahs quenched like fire. 

LXIII. 

But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
The wind is winged from one point of 
heaven. 
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which 
then 
Is musical — a dying accent driven 
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks 
again. 
Some deem it but the distant echo given 
Back to the night wind by the waterfall. 
And harmonized by the old choral wall : 

LXIV. 

Others, that some original shape, or form 
Shaped by decay, perchance, hath given the 
power 
(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, 
warm 
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fixed hour) 
To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm ; 
Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or 
tower ; 
The cause I know not, nor can solve; but 

such 
The fact : — I've heard it, — once perhaps too 
much. 

LXV. 

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain played, 
Symmetrical, but decked with carvings 
quaint — 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade. 
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 

The spring gushed through grim mouths of 
granite made. 
And sparkled into basins, where it spent 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles. 

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 

With more of the monastic than has been 
Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were 
stable. 
The cells, too, and refectory, I ween : 
An exquisite small chapel had been able. 
Still unimpaired, to decorate the scene; 
The rest had been reformed, replaced, or 

sunk. 
And spoke more of the baron than the 
monk. 



LXVII. 

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, 
joined 
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts. 
Might shock a connoisseur ; but when com- 
bined. 
Formed a whole which, irregular in parts. 
Yet left a grand impression on the mind. 
At least of those whose eyes are in their 
hearts. 
We gaze upon a giant for his stature. 
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

LXVIII. 
Steel barons, molten the next generation 

To silken rows of gay and gartered earls. 
Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation : 

And Lady Marys blooming into girls, 
With fair long locks, had also kept their sta- 
tion : 
And countesses mature in robes and pearls : 
Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 
Whose drapery hints we may admire them 
freely. 

LXIX. 
Judges in very formidable ermine 

Were there, with brows that did not much 
invite 
The accused to think their lordships would 
determine 
His cause by leaning much from might to 
right : 
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon : 

Attorney-generals, awful to the sight, 
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp 

us) 
Of the "Star Chamber" than of " Habeas 
Corpus." 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armor, of the old 
And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed : 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 
Nimrods, whose canvas scarce contained 
the steed ; 

And here and there some stern high patriot 
stood. 

Who could not get the place for which he sued. 

LXXI. 
But ever and anon, to soothe your vision, 
Fatigued with these hereditary glories, 
There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 

Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's. 
Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea 
shone 
In Vernet's ocean light; and there the sto- 
ries 
Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 
His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 



DON yUAN. 



843 



Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 
There Rembrandt made his darkness equal 
light, 
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 
Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic ancho- 
rite : — 
But, lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 

Ytiur eyes to revel in a livelier sight : 
His bell-mouthed goblet makes me feel quite 

Danish 
Or Dutch with thirst — What, ho! a fiask of 
Rhenish. 

LXXIII. 

reader ! if that thou canst read, — and know, 
"lis not enough to spell, or even to read, 

To constitute a reader ; there must go 

Virtues of which both you and I have need. 
Firstly, begin with the beginning — (though 
That clause is hard) ; and secondly, pro- 
ceed ; 
Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, 

sinning 
In this sort, end at least with the beginning. 

LXXIV. 
But, reader, thou hast patient been of late. 

While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear. 
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 

Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 
That poets were so from the earliest date, 

By Homer's " Catalogue of ships " is clear ; 
But a mere modern must be moderate — 

1 spare you then the furniture and plate. 



Ah, brilliant pheas- 
'Tis no sport for 



LXXV. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 

The corn is cut, the manor full of game; 
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 

In russet jacket : — lynx-like is his aim ; 
Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. 

Ah, nutbrown partridges ! 
ants ! 

And ah, ye poachers !- 
peasants. 

LXXVI. 

An English autumn, though it hath no vines. 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines 
The red grape in the sunny lands of song, 

Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
The claret light, and the Madeira strong. 

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 

The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 



Then, if she hath not that serene decline 
Which makes the southern autumn's day 
appear 

As if 'twould to a second spring resign 
The season, rather than to winter drear, — 

Of indoor comforts still she hath a mine, — 
The sea-coal fires, the " earliest of the year ; " 

Without doors, too. she may complete in 
mellow, 

As what is lost in green is gained in yellow. 



CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. 



If from great nature's or our own abyss 
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, 

Perhaps mankind might find the path they 
miss — 
But then'twouldspoil much goodphilosophy. 

One system eats another up, and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 

For when his pious consort gave him stones 

In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 



But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast. 
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 

Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast. 
After due search, your faith to' any question ? 

Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 
You bind yourself, and call some mode the 
best one. 



Nothing more true than not to trust your 

senses ; 
And yet what are your other evidences ? 

in. 

For me, I know nought ; nothing I deny. 
Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know 
you. 

Except perhaps that you were born to die ? 
And both may after all turn out untrue. 

An age may come. Font of Eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men 
weep. 

And yet a third of life is passed in sleep. 

IV. 

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 
Of toil, is what we covet most ; ana yex . 



844 



DON JUAN. 



How clay shrinks back from more quiescent 
clay ! 

The very Suicide that pays his debt 
At once without instalments (an old way 

Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 
Lets out imnatiently his rushing breath, 
Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 



'Tis round him, near him, here, there, every- 
where ; 
And there's a courage which grows out of 
fear, 
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 
The worst to know it : — when the moun- 
tains rear 
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and 
there 
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a 

minute 
Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 

VI. 

'Tis true, you don't — but, pale and struck 
with terror. 
Retire : but look into your past impression ! 
And you will find, though shuddering at the 
mirror 
Of your own thoughts, in all their self-con- 
fession. 
The lurking bias, be it truth or error. 

To the unknown ; a secret prepossession, 
To phinge with all your fears — but where? 

You know not. 
And that's the reason why you do — or do not. 

VII. 

But what's this to the purpose ? you will say. 
Gent, reader, nothing; a mere speculation, 
For whicli my sole excuse is — 'tis my way. 
Sometimes with and sometimes without oc- 
casion 
I write what's uppermost, without delay ; 

This narrative is not meant for narration. 
But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
To build up common things with common 
places. 

VIII. 
You know, or don't know, that great Bacon 
saith, 
" Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the 
wind blows ; " 
And such a straw, borne on by human breath. 

Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 
A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
A shadow which the onward soul behind 
throws. 
And mine's a bubble, not blown up for 

praise, • 
But just to play with, as an infant plays. 



IX. 
The world is all before me — or behind ; 

For I have seen a portion of that same, 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind; — 

Of passions, too, I have proved enough to 
blame, 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame ; 
For I was rather famous in my time, 
Until I fairly knocked it up with rhyme. 

I 

I have brought this world about my ears, and 
eke I 

The other ; that's to say, the clergy — who ' 
Upon my head have bid their thunders break 

In pious libels by no means a few. 
And yet I can't help scribbhng once a week. 

Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 
In youth I wrote because my mind \\ as full, 
And now because I feel it growing dull. 



LXXXV. 
Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid 
mansion ; 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct. 
As she had seen nought claiming its expan- 
sion. 
A wavering spirit may be easier wrecked. 
Because 'tis frailer,"doubtIess, than a stanch 
one ; 
But when the latter works its own undoing. 
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 
She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that 
love 

Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil. 
The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move 

Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove. 

No bickerings, no connubial turmoil : 
Their union was a model to behold. 
Serene and noble, — conjugal, but cold. 

LXXXVII. 
There was no great disparity of years. 
Though much in temper; but they never 
clashed ; 
They moved like stars united in their spheres, 
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters 
washed, 
Where mingled and yet separate appears 

The river from the lake, all bliiely dashed 
Through the serene and placid glassy deep. 
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 

LXXXVIII. 
Now when she once had ta'en an interest 
In any thing, however she might flatter 



DON JUAN. 



845 



Herself that her intentions were the best, 

Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: 
Impressions were much stronger than she 
guessed, 
And gathered as they run like growing 
water 
Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 
Was not at first too readily impressed. 

LXXXIX. 
But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 
Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
That is', when they succeed; but greatly 
blamed 
As obstinacy, both in men and women. 

Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is 
tamed : — 
And 'twill perplex the casuist in morality 
To fix the due bounds of this dangerous qual- 
ity. 

XC. 

Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 

It had been firmness; now 'tis pertinacity: 

Must the event decide between the two ? 
I leave it to your people of sagacity 

To draw the line between the false and true, 
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity. 

My business is with Lady Adeline, 

Who in her way too was a heroine. 

XCI. 

She knew not her own heart; then how 
should I? 
I think not she was then in love with Juan : 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her a new one : 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
111 him, because she thought he was in dan- 
ger, — 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a 
stranger. 

XCII. 

She was, or thought she was, his friend — and 
this 
Without the farce of friendship, or ro- 
mance ; 
Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 

Ladies who have studied friendship but in 
France 
Or Germany, where people /«/-^/)/ kiss. 

To thus much Adeline would not advance; 
But of such friendship as man's may to man 

be 
She was as capable as woman can be. 

XCIII. 
No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
Will there, as also iii the ties of blood, 



An innocent predominance annex. 
And tune the concord to a finer mood. 

If free from passion, which all friendship 
checks, 
And your true feelings fully understood. 

No friend like to a woman earth discovers. 

So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 



Love bears within its breast the very germ 
Of change ; and how should this be other- 
wise ? 
That violent things more quickly find a term 

Is shown through nature's whole analogies ; 
And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 
Would you have endless lightning in the 
skiffs ? 
Methinks Love's very title says enough : 
How should "the tender passion" e'er be 
tough ? 

XCV. 

Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 

(I merely quote what I have heard from 
many) 

Had lovers not some reason to regret 
The passion which made Solomon a zany. 

I've also seen some wives (not to forget 
The marriage state, the best or worst of 

any) ^ . 

Who were the very paragons oi wives. 
Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVI. 

I've also seen some female friends ('tis odd, 

But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
That faithful were through thick and thin, 
abroad, 
At home, far more than ever yet was 
Love — 
Who did not quit me when Oppression trod 
Upon me; whom no scandal could re- 
move ; 
Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my 

battles. 
Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. 

XCVII. 

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 
Grew friends in this or any other sense 

Will be discussed hereafter, I opine : 
At present I am glad of a pretence 

To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 
And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense: 

The surest way for ladies and for books 

To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 

XCVIII. 
Whether they rode, or walked, or studied 
Spanish 
To read Don Quixote in the original, 



846 



DON JUAN. 



A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 

Whether their talk was of the kind called 
" small," 
Or serious, are the topics I must banish 

To the next Canto ; where perhaps I shall 
Say something to the purpose, and display 
Considerable talent in my way. 

XCIX. 
Above all, I beg all men to forbear 

Anticipating aught about the matter: 
They'll only make mistakes about the fair, 

And }uan too, especially the latter. 
And I shall take a much more serious air 

Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. 
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
Will fall ; but if they do, 'twill be their ruin. 



But great things spring from little : — Would 
you think. 
That in our youth, as dangerous a passion 
As e'er brought man and woman to the 
brink 
Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion. 
As few would ever dream could form the 
link 
Of such a sentimental situation ? 



You'll never guess, I'll bet you millions, mil- 
liards — 
It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 

CI. 
'Tis strange, — but true; for truth is always 
strange ; 
Stranger than fiction : if it could be told. 
How much would novels gain by the ex- 
change ; 
How differently the world would men be- 
hold 1 
How oft would vice and virtue places change ! 
The new world would be nothing to the 
old, 
If some Columbus of the moral seas 
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 

CII. 
What " antres vast and deserts idle " then 

Would be discovered in the human soul ! 
What icebergs in the hearts of might v men, 

With self-love in the centre as tlieir pole ! 
What Anthropophagi are nine often 

Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 
Were things but only called by their right 

name, 
Csesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 



CANTO THE FIFTEENTH. 



Ah! — What should follow slips from my 
reflection ! 
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 
As a-propos of hope or retrospection, 

As though the lurking thought had followed 
free. 
All present life is but an interjection. 

An " Oh ! " or " Ah ! " of joy or misery. 
Or a "Ha! ha! "or "Bah!" — a yawn, or 

" Pooh ! " 
Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 

II. 
But, more or less, the whole's a syncope 

Or a singultus — emblems of emotion. 
The grand antithesis to great ennui, 

Wherewith we break our bubbles on the 
ocean. 
That watery outline of eternity. 

Or miniature at least, as is my notion. 
Which ministers unto the soul's delight. 
In seeing matters which are out of sight. 

III. 
But all are better than the sigli supprest. 
Corroding in the cavern of the heart, 



Making the countenance a masque of rest, 
And turning human nature to an art. 

Few men dare show their thoughts of worst 
or best ; 
Dissimulation always sets apart 

A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 

Is that which passes with least contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who can not 
Remember, without telling, passion's errors ? 

The drainer of oblivion, even the sot. 

Hath got blue devils for his morning mir- 
rors : 

What though on Lethe's stream he seem to 
float. 
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors; 

The ruby glass that shakes within his hand 

Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 



V. 



We will pro- 



And as for love — O love ! 
ceed. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
A pretty name as one would wish to read, 

Must perch harmoniruis on my tuneful quill. 
There's rnusic in the sighing of a reed ; 



DON JUAN. 



8H7 



There's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
There's music in all things, if men had ears ; 
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 



The Lady Adeline, right honorable, 

And honored, ran a risk of growing less so ; 

For few of the soft sex are very stable 

Intheir resolves — alas! that I should say sol 

Thev differ as wine differs from its label, 
When once decanted ; — I presume to guess 
so. 

But will not swear: yet both upon occasion. 

Till old, may undergo adulteration. 



But Adeline was of the purest vintage, 

The unmingled essence of the grape ; and 
yet 
Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 

Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 
A page where Time should hesitate to print 
age. 
And for which Nature might forego her 
debt — 
Sole creditor whose process doth involve in't 
The luck of finding everybody solvent. 



O Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou daily 
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap. 

Like a meek tradesman when, approaching 
palely. 
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 

But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
Advances with exasperated rap, 

And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 

On ready money or " a draft on Ransom." 

IX. 

Whate'er thou takest, spare a while poor 
Beauty 1 
She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 
What though she now and then may slip from 
duty. 
The more's the reason why you ought to 
stay. 
Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations for 
your booty. 
You should be civil in a modest way : 
Su'ppress, then, some slight feminine diseases. 
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 

X. 

Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 

Where she was interested (as was said), 

Because she was not apt, like some of us, 
To like too readily, or too high bred 

To show it — (points we need not now dis- 
cuss) — 
Would give up artlessly both heart and head, 



Unto such feelings as seemed innocent, 
For objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XI. 

Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumor, 

That live gazette, had scattered to disfiguie. 
She had heard ; but women hear with more 
good humor 
Such aberrations than we men of rigor : 
Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew 
more 
Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier 
vigor; 
Because he had, like Alcibiades, 
The art of living in all climes with ease. 

XII. 

His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 
Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce ; 

Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 

Of his attractions marred the fair perspective. 
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose. 

And seemed to say, " Resist us if you can" — 

Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 

XIII. 

They are wrong — that's not the way to set 
about it ; 
As, if they told the truth, could well be 
shown. 
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it ; 

In fact, his manner was his own alone: 
Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt 
it, 
In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 

XIV. 

By nature soft, his whole address held off 
Suspicion : though not timid, his regard 
Was such as rather seemed to keep aloof, 
To shield himself than put you on your 
guard : 
Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough, 

But modesty's at times its own reward. 
Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 
Will go much further than there's need to 
mention. 

XV. 

Serene, accomplished, cheerful but not loud ; 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Observant ot the foibles of the crowd, 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conveisation • 
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud. 

So as to make them feel he knew his sta- 
tion 
And theirs : — without a struggle for priority, 
He neither brooked nor claimed superiority. 



848 



DON JUAN. 



XVI. 
That is, with men : with women he was what' 

They pleased to make or take him for ; and 
their 
Imagination's quite enough for that: 

So that the outline's tolerably fair, 
They fill the canvas up — and " verbum sat." 

If once their phantasies be brought to bear 
Upon an object, whether sad or playful, 
They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 

XVII. 
Adeline, no deep judge of character, 

Was apt to add a coloring from her own. 
'Tis thus tlie good will amiably err. 

And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 
Experience is the chief philosopher. 

But saddest when his science is well known : 
And persecuted sages teach the schools 
Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XVIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater 
Bacon ? 

Great Socrates ? And thou, Diviner still, 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 

And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? 
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken. 

How was thy toil rewarded ? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations. 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 

I perch upon an humbler promontory. 

Amidst life's infinite variety : 
With no great care for what is nicknamed 
glory. 

But speculating as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story, 

And never straining hard to versify, 
I rattle on exactly as I'd talk 
W^ith anybody in a ride or walk. 

XX. 

I don't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 

But there's a conversational facility. 

Which may round off an hour upon a time. 

Of this I'lTi sure at least, there's no servility 
In mine irregularity of chime, 

Which rings wliat's uppermost of new or hoary 

Just as I feel the " Improvvisatore." 



XXVIII. 
When Adeline, in all her growing sense 

Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
Felt on the whole an interest intense, — 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 
Or that he had an air of innocence, 

Which is for innoqence a sad temptation, — 



As women hate half measures, on the whole. 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice, 

Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, 

For which small thanks are still the market 
price. 
Even where the article at highest rate is : 

She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, 
And morally decided, the best state is 

For morals, marriage ; and this question car- 
ried. 

She seriously advised him to get married. 



Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 
He had a pi edilection for that tie ; 

But that, at present, with immediate reference 
To his own circumstances, there might lie 

Some difficulties, as in his own preference, 
Or that of her to whom he might apply : 

That still he'd wed with such or such a lady. 

If that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 

Next to the making matches for herself. 
And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 

Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 
There's nothing women love to dabble in 

More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 
Than match-making in general: 'tis no sin, 

Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 

That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 



XL. 

But Adeline determined Juan's wedding 
In her own mind, and that's enough for 
woman : 
But then, with whom? There was the sage 
Miss Reading, 
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and 
Miss Knowman, 
And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. 
She deemed his merits something more than 
common : 
All these were unobjectionable matches, 
And might go on, if well wound up, like 
watches. 

XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as suin- 
mer's sea. 

That usual paragon, an only daughter, 
Who seemed the cream of equanimity. 

Till skimmed — and then there was some 
milk and water, 
With a slight shade of blue too, it might be. 

Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter? 
Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 
And being; consumptive, live on a milk diett 



DOM yUAN. 



849 



XLIl. 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoe- 
string, 
A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
Whose heart was fixed upon a star or blue 
string; 
But whether English dukes grew rare of late, 
Or that she had not harped upon the true 
string. 
By which such sirens can attract our great. 
She took up with some foreign younger 

brother, 
A Russ or Turk — the one's as good as t'other. 

XLIII. 

And then there was — but why should I. go on, 
Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 

Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, 
Of the best class, and better than her class, — 

Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, 

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 



Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 
Child to the care of guardians good and 
kind ; 

But still her aspect had an air so ioneiyi 
Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 

Feelings of youth like those which overthrown 
He 
By death, when we are left, aljis 1 behind. 

To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 

Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 

XLV. 
Early in years, and yet more infantine 

In figure, she had something of sublime 
In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs" shine. 

All youth — but with an aspect beyond time ; 
Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline ; 

Mournful — but mournful of another's crime. 
She looked as if she sat by Eden's door. 
And grieved for those who could return no 
more. 

XLVI. 
She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, 

As far as her own gentle heart allowed, 
And deemed that fallen worship far more dear 

Perhaps because 'twas fallen : her sires were 
proud 
Of deeds and days when they had filled the ear 

Of nations, and had never bent or bowed 
To novel power; and as she was the last. 
She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 

XLVI I. 
She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew 

As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 
As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 



And kept her heart serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she 

drew ; 

Her spirit seemed as seated on a throne 

Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 

In its own strength — most strange in one so 

young 1 

XLVIII. 
Now it so happened, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted. 
Although her birth and wealth had given her 
vogue 
Beyond the charmers we have already cited ; 
Her beauty also seenied to form no clog 

Against her being mentioned as well fitted, 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
Of single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLIX. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 
This he expressed half smiling and half 
serious; 

When Adeline replied with some disgust. 
And with an air, to say the least, impe- 
rious. 

She marvelled " what he saw in such a baby 

As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby ? " 

L. 

Juan rejoined — " She was a Catholic, 
And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion ; 

Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, 
And the Pope thunder excommunication. 

If " But here Adeline, who seemed to 

pique 
Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As usual — the same reason which she late did. 

LI. 

And wherefore not ? A reasonable reason, 
If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 

If bad, the best way's certainly to teaze on. 
And amplify : you lose much by concision, 

Whereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician ; 

Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 

So the end's gained, what signifies the route ! 

LII. 

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a creature 

As pure as sanctity itself from vice. 
With all the added charm of form and feat- 
ure. 

For me appears a question far too nice, 
Since Adeline was liberal by nature; 

But nature's nature, and has more caprices 

Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 



850 



DON yOAN. 



LIII. 

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

With which Aurora on those baubles looked, 

Which charm most people in their earlier day : 
For there are few things by mankind less 
brooked, 

And womankind too, if we so may say, 

Than finding thus their genius stand re- 
buked, 

Like " Antony's by Caesar," by the few 

Who look upon them as they ought to do. 

LIV. 
It was not envy — Adeline had none; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. 
It was not scorn — which could not light on 
one 

Whose greatest /a«// was leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousy, I think : but shun 

Following the " ignes fatui " of mankind. 

It was not but 'tis easier far, alas ! 

To say what it was not than what it was. 

LV. 
Little Aurora deemed she was the theme 

Of such discussion. She was there a guest ; 
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 
Of rank and youth, though purer than the 
rest. 
Which flowed on for a moment in the beam 
Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling 
crest. 
Had she known this, she would have calmly 

smiled — 
She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LVI. 
The dashing and proud air of Adeline 

Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze 
Much as she would have seen a glow-worm 
shine. 

Then turned unto the stars for loftier rays. 
Juan was something she could not divine. 

Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 
Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVI I. 
His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 
Which sometimes plays the deuce with 
womankind, 
A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, 
Hr^'f virtues and whole vices being com- 
oined ; 
Faults which attract because they are not tame ; 
Follies tricked out so brightly that they 
blind : — 



These seals upon her wax made no impres- 
sion. 
Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

LVI II. 
Juan knew nought of such a character — 

High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee ; 
Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 

The island girl, bred up by the lone sea. 
More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere. 

Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be. 
Nor would be thus: — the difference in them 
Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

LIX. 
Having wound up with this sublime compari- 
son, 
Methinks we may proceed upon our narra- 
tive. 
And, as my friend Scott says, " I sound my 
warison ; " 
Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 
Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or 
Saracen, 
Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would 
share it, if 
There had not been one Shakspeare and Vol- 
taire, 
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 
I say, in my slight way I may proceed 

To play upon the surface of humanity. 
I write the world, nor care if the world 
read, 
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 
My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may 
breed 
More foes by this same scroll : when I be- 
gan it, I 
Thought that it might turn out so — now 1 

know it. 
But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

LXI. 
The conference or congress (for it ended 

As congresses of late do) of the Lady 
Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 

Some acids with the sweets — for she was 

heady ; 

But, ere the matter could be marred or mended, 

The silverybell rang, not for" dinner ready," 

But for that hour, called half-hour, given to 

dress. 
Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for 
less. 



DON JUAN. 



851 



CANTO THE SIXTEENTH. 



The antique Persians taught three useful 
things, 

To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the 
truth. 
This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings — 

A mode adopted since by modern youth. 
Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 

Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 
At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 
But draw the long bow better now than ever. 

II. 
The cause of this effect, or this defect, — 

" For this effect defective comes by cause,"— 
Is what I have not leisure to inspect; 

But this I must say in my own applause. 
Of all the Muses that I recollect, 

What'er may be her follies or her flaws 
In some things, mine's beyond all contradic- 
tion 
The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 



And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 

From any thing, this epic will contain 
A wilderness of the most rare conceits. 

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in 
vain. 
'Tis true there be some bitters with the 
sweets. 
Yet mixed so slightly, that you can't com- 
plain. 
But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 
" De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 

IV. 
But of all truths which she has told, the most 

True is that which she is about to tell. 
I said it was a story of a ghost — 

What then ? I only know it so befell. 
Have you explored the limits of the coast. 

Where all the dwellers of the earth must 
dwell ? 
'Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 
The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. 

V. 
Some people would impose now with author- 
ity, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoifry's Chronicle ; 
Men whose historical superiority 

Is always greatest at a miracle. ^ 

But Saint Augustine has the great priority. 

Who bids all men believe the impossible. 
Because 'tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, 

he 
Quiets at once with " quia impossibile." 



VI. 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 

Believe : — if 'tis improbable, you must; 
And if it is impossible, you shall : 

'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 
I do not speak profanely, to recall 

Those holier mysteries which the wise and 
just 
Receive as gospel, and which grow more 

rooted. 
As all truths must, the more they are disputed : 



I merely mean to say what Johnson said. 
That in the course of some six thousand 
years, 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at intervals appears ; 

And what is strangest upon this strange head, 
•Is, that whatever bar the reason rears 

'Gainst such belief, there's something stronger 
still 

In its behalf, let those deny who will. 

VIII. 

The dinner and the soiree too were done. 
The supper too discussed, the dames ad- 
mired. 
The banqueteers had dropped off one by 
one — 
The song was silent, and the dance expired : 
The last thin petticoats were vanished, gone 

Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired. 
And nothing brighter gleamed through the 

saloon 
Than dying tapers — and the peeping moon. 

IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt ; 
Or like a soda bottle when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
Or like a billow left by storms behind. 
Without the animation of the wind ; 



Or like an opiate, which brings troubled 
rest, 

Or none ; or like — like nothing that I know 
Except itself; — such is the human breast ; 

A thing, of which similitudes can show 
No real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 

Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 
If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. 
So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal I 



852 



DON yUAN. 



But next to dressing for a rout or ball, 
Undressing is a woe ; our robe de chambre 

May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 
Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than 
amber. 

Titus exclaimed, " I've lost a day ! " Of all 
The nights and days most people can re- 
member, 

(I have had both, some not to be disdained,) 

I wish they'd state how many they have gained. 



And Juan, on retiring for the night. 

Felt restless, and perplexed, and com- 
promised : 

He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 
Than Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 

If he had known exactly his own plight, 
He probably would have philosophized; 

A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 

Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sighed. 



He sighed ; — the next resource is the full 
moon, 

Where all sighs are deposited; and now 
It happened luckily, the chaste orb shone 

As clear as such a climate will allow; 
And f uans mind was in the proper tone 

To hail her with the apostrophe — "O 
thou! " 
Of amatory egotism the Tnism, 
Which further to explain would be a truism. 



But lover, poet, or astronomer, 

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold. 
Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : 

Great^ thoughts we catch from thence (be- 
sides a cold 
Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err) ; ' 

Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she 

sways. 
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XV. 

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
For contemplation rather than his pillow : 

The Gothic chamber, where he was inclosed. 
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow. 

With all the mystery by midnight caused : 
Below his window waved (of course) a 
willow; 

And he stood gazing out on the cascade 

That flashed and after darkened in the shade. 

XVI. 
Upon his table or his toilet, — ivhic/i 

Of these is not exactly ascertained, — 
(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 



Of nicety, where a fact is to be gained,) 
A lamp burned high, while he leant from a 
niche. 

Where many a Gothic ornament remained. 
In chiselled stone and painted glass, and all 
That time has left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he 
threw 
His chamber door wide open — and went 
forth 
Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, 
Long, furnished with old pictures of great 
worth, 
Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 

As doubtless should be people of high birth. 
But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 
Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 

XVIII. 

The forms of the grim knight and pictured 
saint 

Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 
Backward and forward to the echoes faint 

Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 

Start from the frames which fence their as- 
pects stern. 
As if to ask how you can dare to keep 
A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave. 
The charms of other days, in starlight 
gleams, 

Glimmer on high ; their buried locks still wave 
Along the canvas ; their eyes glance like 
dreams 

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 

A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juan mused on mutability. 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique 
house ; 
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 

A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarass 
Most people as it plays along the arras. 

XXI. 

It As no mouse, but lo ! a monk, arrayed 
In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, ap- 
peared, 
Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in 
shade, 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; 



DON JUAN. 



853 



His garments only a slight murmur made ; 

He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 
Rut slowly; and as he passed Juan by, 
Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

XXII. 

Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 
Of such a spirit in these halls of old; 

But thought, like most men, there was nothing 
in't 
Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, 

Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 
Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 

But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 

And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ? 

XXIII, 
Once, twice, thrice passed, repassed — the 
thing of air, 
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t'other 
place ; 
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its 
base 
As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; 
He taxed his tongue for words, which were 

not granted. 
To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXIV. 
The third time, after a still longer pause. 
The shadow passed away — but where ? the 
hall 
Was long, and thus far there was no great 
cause 
To think his vanishing unnatural : 
Doors there were many, through which, by 
the laws 
Of physics, bodies w^hether short or tall 
Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 
Through which the spectre seemed to evapo- 
rate. _ 

XXV. 
He stood — how long he knew not, but it 
seemed 
An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 
Strained on the spot where first the figure 

gleamed ; 
. Then by degrees recalled his energies, 
And would have passed the whole off as a 
dream, 
But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise, 
Waking already, and returned at length 
Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 

XXVI. 

All there was as he left it : still his taper 
Burnt and not blue, as modest tapers use. 

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapor ; 
He rubbed his e^jes, and they did not refuse 



Their office ; he took up an old newspaper ; 
.The paper was right easy to peruse ; 
He read an article the king attacking. 
And a long eulogy of " patent blacking." 

XXVII. * 

This savored of this world; but his hand 
shook. 

He shut his door, and after having read 
A paragraph, I think about Home looke, 

Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed. 
There, couched all snugly on his pillow's nook, 

With what he had seen his phantasy he fed ; 
And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 
Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 

XXVIII. 
He woke betimes ; and as may be supposed, 

Pondered upon his visitant of vision. 
And whether it ought not to be disclosed, 
At risk of being quizzed for superstition. 
The more he thought, the more his mind was 
posed : 
In the mean time, his valet, whose precision 
Was great, because his master brooked no 

less, 
Knocked to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

He dressed ; and like young people he was 
wont 
To take some trouble with his toilet, but - 
This morning rather spent less time upon't ; 

Aside his very mirror soon was put; 
His curls fell negligently o'er his front. 
His clothes were not curbed to their usua 
cut. 
His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 
Almost an hair's breadth too much on one 
side. 

XXX. 

And when he walked down into the saloon, 
He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea. 

Which he perhaps had not discovered soon. 
Had it not happened scalding hot to be. 

Which made him have recourse unto his 
spoon ; 
So much distrait he was, that all could see 

That something was the matter — Adeline 

The first — but what she could not well divine. 

XXXI. 

She looked, and saw him pale, and turned as 
pale 
Herself; then hastily looked down, and mut- 
tered 
Something, but what's not stated in my tale. 
Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill but- 
tered ; 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke played with her 
veil. 



854 



DON JUAN. 



And looked at Juan hard, but nothing ut- 
tered. 
Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes 
Surveyed him with a kind of calm surprise. 

XXXII. 

But seeing him all cold and silent still, 

And everybody wondering more or less, 
Fair Adeline inquired, " If he were ill ? " 
He started, and said, " Yes — no — rather — 
yes." 
The family physician had great skill. 

And being present, now began to express 
His readiness to feel his pulse and tell 
The cause, but Juan said, " He was quite 
well." 

XXXIII. 

" Quite well -^ yes, — no." — These answers 
were mysterious, 

And yet his looks appeared to sanction both, 
However they might savor of delirious ; 

Something like illness of a sudden growth 
Weighed on his spirit, though by no means 
serious ; 

But for the rest, as he himself seemed loth 
To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted 
It was not the physician that he wanted. 

XXXIV. 

Lord Henry, who had now discussed his 
chocolate. 
Also the muffin whereof he complained. 
Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, 
At which he marvelled, since it had not 
rained ; 
Then asked her Grace what news were of the 
duke of late ? 
Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather 
pained 
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then Henry turned to Juan, and addressed 

A few words of condolence on his state : 
" You look," quoth he, " as if you had had 
your rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 
" What friar ? " said Juan ; and he did his best 
■ To put the question with an air sedate, 
Or careless ; but the effort was not valid 
To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 

XXXVI. 
" Oh ! have you never heard of the Black 
Friar ? 
The spirit of these walls?" — "In truth 
not I." 
"Why Fame — but Fame you know's some- 
times a liar — 
Tells an odd story, of which by and by : 



Whether with time the spectre has grown 
shyer. 
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
For such sights, though the tale is half be- 
lieved, 
The friar of late has not been oft perceived. 



XXXVII. 



— "1 pray. 



said 



" The last time was - 
Adehne — 

(Who watched the changes of Don Juan's 
brow. 
And from its context thought she could divine 
Connections stronger than he chose to avow 
With this same legend) — " if you but design 
To jest, you'll choose some other theme 
just now. 
Because the present tale has oft been told, 
And is not much improved by growing old." 

XXXVIII. 

" Jest ! " quoth Milor ; " why, Adeline, you 
know 
That we ourselves — 'twas in the honey- 
moon — 

Saw " — " Well, no matter, 'twas so long 

ago ; 
But, come, I'll set your story to a tune." 
Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow, 
She seized her harp, whose strings were 
kindled soon 
As touched, and plaintively began to play 
The air of " 'Twas a Friar of Orders Gray." 

XXXIX. 

" But add the words," cried Henry, " which you 
made; 
For Adeline is half a poetess," 
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 

Of course the others could not but express 
In courtesy their wish to see displayed 
By one three talents, for there were no 
less — 
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at 

once 
Could hardly be united by a dunce. 



After some fascinating hesitation, — 

The charming of these charmers, who seenj 
bound, 

I can't tell why, to this dissimulation, — 
Fair Adeline, with eyes fixed on the ground 

At first, then kindling into animation. 

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 

And sang with much simphcity, — a merit 

Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 



Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
Who sitteth by Norman stone, 



DON JUAN. 



855 



For he mutters his prayer in the midnight 
air, 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 

Made Norman Church his prey, 
And expelled the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away. 



Though he came in his might, with King 
Henry's right, 

To turn church lands to lay. 
With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Tlieir walls, if they said nay; 
A monk remained, unchased, uncliained. 

And he did not seem formed of clay. 
For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in 
the church. 

Though he is not seen by day. 



And whether for good, or whether for ill. 

It is not mine to say; 
But still with the house of Amundeville 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis 
said. 

He flits on the bridal eve ; 
And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of 
death 

He comes — but not to grieve. 



When an heir is born, he's heard to mourn. 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'Tis shadowed by his cowl ; 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds be 
tween. 

And they seem of a parted soul. 



But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

He still retains his sway. 
For he is yet the church's heir 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amundeville is lord by day. 

But the monk \s lord by night ; 
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 

To question that friar's right. 



Say nought to him as he walks the hall. 

And he'll say nought to you ; 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall. 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then grammercy ! for the Black Friar; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 

Let ours be for his soul. 



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